r 


LOVELL'S  SCHOOL  DIALOGUES, 


.NEW 

SCHOOL  DIALOGUES; 


OB, 


DEAMATIC   SELEOTIOITS, 


FOB  THE  USB  OF 


SCHOOLS,  ACADEMIES,  AND  FAMILIES. 

DESIGNED  TO  FUENISH  EXERCISES 

EITHER   FOR 

READING,  RECITATION,  OR  EXHIBITION. 


dc 


By  JOHN  Ef  LOVELL, 

AUTHOR   OP    * 
LOVBLL'S   TJNTTBD    states    SPBAKEB,    liOVBIX's   SKETES   OF   BBADEE8,   KTC. 


A  NEW  EDITION,  REVISED  AND  ENLARGED. 


NEW  YORK: 

COLLINS   &   BROTHER,   PUBLISHERS, 

370  RROADWAY. 


SDUCATION  DEPT. 

Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

COLLINS    &   BROTHER, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librari4n  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


PREFACE, 


Tis  not  enough  the  voice  be  sound  and  clear, 
'Tis  modulation  that  must  charm  the  ear. 
The  critic's  sight,  'tis  only  grace  can  please, 
No  action  charms  us,  if  it  have  not  ease. — Llotb. 

This  book  of  Dialogues  was  promised  to  the  public  two  or 
three  years  ago.  I  had  then  prepared  a  considerable  portion 
ot  its  contents,  and  expected,  shortly,  to  '-put  it  to  press." 
The  long  interval  which  has  elapsed,  has  been  checkered 
with  important  and  unexpected  duties,  which,  together 'with  a 
desire  to  render  the  work  as  interesting  and  appropriate  as 
possible,  must  be  my  apology  to  those  gentlemen  who  ha^e 
honored  me  with  letters  of  inquiry  respecting  it.  My  princi- 
pal inducement  for  undertaking  the  labor  and  responsibility  of 
this  compilation,  is  the  almost  constant  application  to  me/o7' 
'pieces  for  exhibitions^  from  teachers,  not  only  of  this,  but,  in- 
deed, of  other  States ;  and  the  fact  that  the  publishers  have, 
now,  before  the  work  '  is  through  the  press."  numerous  or- 
ders from  different  parts  of  the  country. — assures  me  that  such 
a  work  is  much  needed,  and.  if  well  executed  will  be  well 
received.  My  experience  satisfies  me.  that  there  is  no  better 
medium  of  cultivating  a  beautiful  and  captivating  style  of 
elocution^  'r  a  more  graceful,  just,  and  impressive  action,  than 
the  ^.mp>yment  of  dialogues.  Nor  is  there  any  species  of 
recitation  that  young  folks  so  much  delight  in.  The  ardor 
and  enthusiasm  it  inspires  in  their  youthful  breasts,  is  abso- 
lutely astonishi  g.  The  work  will  be  found  to  possess  great 
variety  and  copiousness.  I  have  aimed  at  the  double  pur- 
pose of  supplying  exercises  for  the  regular  lessons  of  the 
school-room  and  interesting  materials  for  occasional  exhibi- 
tions. The  latter  object  has  demanded  selections  of  con- 
siderable length.  Many  of  the  longer  pieces,  however,  are 
admissible  of  division,  and  the  taste  of  the  teacher  will  easily 
determine  the  fit  and  appropriate  limits.  I  have  drawn  from 
the  most  popular  writers,  also  not  only  such  selections  as  are 


IV  PREFACE. 

admirable  for  a  bold,  beautiful  and  captivating  spirit,  but  oth 
ers  equally  characterized  by  their  racy  wit.  and  comic  humor. 
"  The  true  orator  must  understand  how  to  excite  the  wdrtli^ 
as  well  as  how  to  command  the  fears  of  his  auditors." 

To  attempt  to  teachdami/^g  by  mere  words,  and  especially 
written  words,  all  would  admit  to  be  the  absurdity  of  absurdi- 
ties. Just  so  is  it  with  gesture  and  attitude.  The  embellish' 
ments  of  this  volume,  it  is  therefore  hoped,  will  be  appre* 
"iated.  Next  to  living  examples,  no  diouhi^  pictures  are  the 
best.  The  illustrations,  to  which  I  here  allude,  have  been 
selected  for  both  divisions  of  the  book  with  great  care.  We 
all  have  oui-  peculiar  tastes,  and.  according  to  a  trite  and  un- 
classical  aphorism,  "  what's  one  man's  meat  is  another  man's 
poison."  T  will  venture  to  assert,  however,  that  these  embel- 
lishments will  be  considered  very  beautiful,  very  instructive, 
and  admirably  engraved. 

The  book,  such  as  it  is,  is  submitted  to  the  candid  judgment 
of  an  intelligent  and  impartial  public.  My  desire  has  been 
to  subserve  the  cause  of  education,  and  especially  in  that  de- 
partment, which,  if  wisely  and  sufficiently  cherished,  would 
give  unimagined  lustre  and  power  to  the  efforts  of  the  Law- 
yer, the  Statesman,  the  Orator,  and  the  Divine. 

If  the  noble  and  aspiring  boy, —  he,  who.  reaching  after  a 
perfect  elocution  and  a  perfect  action,  may,  after  a  few  fast- 
fled  summers,  be  destined  '-to  rule  the  whirlwind  and  direct 
the  storm,"  in  moral  or  political  affairs, — shall  look  back  to  the 
selections  here  presented  for  his  study,  as  the  source  of  his 
youthful  inspiration.  I  shall  be  thankful.  But  to  arrive  at 
this  proud  eminence  of  fame  and  usefulness,  he  must  labor. 
"  Greece  and  Rome  produced,  each  of  them,  but  one  accom- 
plished orator."  J.  E.  L. 

New  Haven,  Feb.  1st,  1839. 

N  B.  Any  suggestions  for  the  improvement  of  the  v;ork 
either  in  arrangement  or  matter,  from  those  teachers  whc 
may  use  it  will  be  gratefully  received.  J.  E.  L. 


RULES   OF  DEBATE. 


i'l  the  first  general  meeting  of  members  for  the  establishnient  of  the 
ei^s,  the  title  of  the  society  should  be  resolved  upon,  the  laws  of  debate 
agreed  to,  and  a  secretary  elected,  whose  duty  it  will  be  to  keep  minutes 
of  the  proceedings. 

General  meetings  should  be  held  half-yearly,  or  at  some  other  stated 
time,  to  confirm,  amend,  or  extend  the  laws,  and  to  elect  or  re-elect  the 
secretary. 

At  the  ordinary  meetings,  after  the  election  of  the  chairman  from 
amongst  the  members,  the  secretary  should  read  the  minutes  of  ihe 
previous  meeting.  When  they  have  been  confirmed,  the  chairman 
should  call  upon  the  gentleman  who  has  undertaken  to  open  the  debate, 
to  address  the  meeting. 

It  is  then  usual  for  the  seconder  to  speak ;  and  afterwards  the  other 
members,  at  their  pleasure.  When  all  who  wish  to  speak,  have  spoken, 
the  chairman  calls  on  the  opener  for  his  reply  ;  after  which  the  question 
is  put  from  the  chair,  and  decided  by  show  of  hands.  This  done,  the 
question  to  be  discussed  at  the  next  meeting  is  proposed,  seconded  and 
agreed  upon.     The  class  then  adjourns. 

No  member  is  allowed  to  speak  twice,  except  the  opener  in  reply,  or 
any  one  in  explanation. 

'I he  opener  has  no  right  to  introduce  fresh  arguments  in  his  reply: 
he  can  only  refer  to  what  has  gone  before. 

The  chairman  cannot  speak  unless  he  quit  the  chair ;  nor  can  he  vote 
unless  the  numbers  be  equal,  in  which  case  he  gives  Ore  casting  vote. 

It  will  be  found  advisable  to  limit  each  speaker  to  a  particular  time, 
say  ten  minutes :  the  opener  may  be  allowed  fifteen  minutes. 

If  all  who  wish  to  speak,  cannot  do  so  on  one  occasion,  the  debate 
may  be  adjourned  until  next  meeting ; — the  mover  of  the  adjournment^ 
or  the  seconder,  in  the  mover's  absence,  re-opening  the  discussion. 


NOTE  TO  THE  THIRD  EDITION. 


An  increased  demand  for  this  work  has  induced  the  author  carefully 
to  revise  and  improve  it.  It  has  been  considerably  enlarged,  and  ren- 
dered much  superior  to  the  former  editions,  by  the  introduction  of  many 
new  pieces  of  an  instructive  and  highly  interesting  character ;  one  of 
these  is  a  debate,  consisting  of  nine  short  and  pertinent  speeches,  well 
Atiapted  either  for  school-room  exercises,  if  used  in  pairs  ;  or  for  public 
exhibition,  taken  all  together.  The  author  begs  leave  to  suggest  to  his 
brother  teachers,  that  although  this  work  is  specially  designed  to  fur- 
nish materials  for  speaking,  it  will  be  found,  on  trial,  to  be  decidedly 
excellent  as  a  reading  book  for  advanced  classes.  There  is  a  great  va- 
riety of  style  in  the  compositions  here  presented,  and  no  better  mate- 
rials, perhaps,  in  any  shape,  can  be  procured,  as  lessons,  for  the  natural 
cultivation  of  inflection,  tone,  modulation,  pitch,  emotion, — in  short,  for 
the  cultivation  of  all  that  pertains  to  the  "  speaking  voice."  The  ac- 
complished and  effective  reader  can  hardly  be  made  without  the  em- 
ployment of  dialogues. 


NEW  EDITION  ENLAKGED. 

The  favor  accorded  to  the  New  School  Dialogues  has  encouraged 
the  author  to  increase  its  volume  still  farther ;  and  it  is  now  pre- 
sented to  the  public  with  twenty-four  pages  of  new  material. 

New  Haven,  Oct.  31, 1871. 


CONTENTS. 


SERIOUS  AND  SENTIMENTAL. 


P*jioction. 

1.  Gambler's  Remorse — Beverly,  Jarvis, 

2.  The  Orphan — Henry,  Evergreen, 
8.  Virtue — Generous  and  Unsuspecting — Sir  Philip 

Blandford,  Henry,       .... 

4.  From  the  Foundling  of  the   Forest — De  Val- 

mont,  Florian,  L'Clair, 

5.  From  AH  Pacha — Zenocles,  Talathon, 

6.  Lost  Reputation — From  Othello — lago,  Cassio 
1.  From   the  Vespers   of  Palermo — Eribert,  An 

eelmo,  ...... 

8.  Orestes,  Pyrrhus, 

9.  Lochiel — Lochiel,  Seer,       .... 
10.  King,  Youth,  Hamet 

il.  From  Richard  the  Third — Dream  of  Clarence — 
Brakenbury,  Clarence, 

12.  From  Gustavus  Vasa — Gustavus,  Anderson,  Ar 

noldus,  Officers,  Dalecarlians, 

13.  Thankful  Confidence  in  Heaven — Tobias,  Francis 

Stranger, 

14.  From    Douglas  —  Lord    Randolph,    Glenalvon 

Nerval.        ...... 

15.  From  Coriolanus — Coriolanus,  Aufidius,     . 

16.  From  the  Mutiny  at  the  Nore — Parker,  Mary, 

Child,  .         .         .         .         . 

17.  From  Julius  Caesar — Brutus,  Cassius, 

18.  Search  for  Octavian — Octavian,  Roque, 
19    From  Tamerlane — Omar,  Tamerlane, 

to.  From    Antony   and    Cleopatra — Antony,    Ven 
tidius, 

21.  From  the   Peasant  Boy — Albert!,  Julian,  Mon 

taldi,  Stefano,  Ludovico,  Ambrose,  Vincent, 
Guards,  &c., 

22.  From   Henry    the   Fourth  —  Hotspur,   Earl   of 

Douglas,    Raby,   Earl    of    Worcester,    Sir 
Richard  Vernon, 

23.  From  Damon  and   Pythias — Philistius,  Dionys- 

ius,  Damocles,  Damon,  Senators,  Procles, 
Soldiers, 

24.  From  Alasco — Alasco,  Conrad,  Malinski.Rienski, 


Page 
Moore,  13 
Morion,  15 

Morton,  16 

Dimond,  19 

Payne,  21 

Shakspeare,  23 

Mrs.  Hemans,  24 

Philips,  26 

Campbell,  28 

31 

Shakspeare,  34 

Brooke,  36 

Kotzehue,  38 

Home,  41 
Shakspeare,  44 

Jerrold,  46 

Shakspeare,  51 

Colman,  54 

Rowe,  57 

Shakspeare,  61 


Dv.nond,  64 


Shakspeare,  69 


Shiel,  71 

Shee,  '^'^ 


VUl 


CONTENTS. 


Selection.  Page 

25.  From  Julius  Csesar — Brutus,  Cassius,  .         .    ShaJcspeare,     85 

jd.  From  Cato — Gate,  Fortius,  Lucius,  Juba,  Marcia,         Addison,     85 

27.  From  Alfred  the  Great— Alfred,  Devon,     .         .      Thompson,     89 
Scene  Second, 92 

28.  From  Brutus — Brutus,  Centurion,  Valerius,  Titus, 

Collatinus,  Lictors,  Guards,  People,    .         .  Payne,     94 

Scene  Second 97 

29.  From  the  Vespers  of  Palermo — Montalba,  Pro- 

cida,  Raimond,  First  Sicilian,  Second  Sicil- 
ian, Guido,  Sicilians,  .         .         .         Mrs.  Hemans,  100 
80.  From  Pizarro — Alonzc,  Sentinel,  Rollo,      .         .        Sheridan,  106 
31.  From  Pizarro — Pizarro,   Valverde,  Las   Casas, 

Almagro,  Davillo,  Gomez,  Orozembo,  .        Sheridan,  110 

32  From  the  Benevolent  Jew — Sir  Stephen  Ber- 
tram, Frederick  Bertram,  Charles  Ratcliffe, 
Saunders,  Sheva,  Jabal,      .         .         .         .    Cumberland,  115 

Scene  Second, 122 

Scene  Third,        .......  126 

Scene  Fourth, 130 

33.  From   the   Lady   of  the    Lake — King   James, 

Roderic  Dhu, Scott,  131 

34.  From  Rienzi — Angelo,  Rienzi,    ....  Mitford,  137 
36.  Maurice,  the  Woodcutter — Prince  Leopold,  Baron 

Leibheim,  Count  Hartenstein,  Maurice, 
Hans,  Dominie,  Starkoph,  Glandoff,  Cap- 
tain Manhoof,  Riegel,  Boltzen,  Fritz,  Marie, 
Lotta,  Officers,  Peasants,     ....         Somerset,  140 

Scene  Second, 145 

Scene  Third, 149 

Scene  Fourth, 152 

Scene  Fifth, 153 

86.  From    Ion — Adrastus,  Medon,   Ion,    Ctesiphon, 

Cassander,  Cyrthes,  Agenor,       .         .         .         Talfourd,  159 

87.  From  William  Tell— Gesler,  Sarnem,  Rodolph, 

Gerard,  Lutold,  Sentinel,  Tell,  Verner,  Erni, 

Melctal,  Furst,  Michael,  Theodore,  Pierre, 

Albert,Savoyards,Emma,  Soldiers,  People,  Knowhs,  165 

Scene  Second, 167 

Scene  Third, 176 

Scene  Fourth, 178 

Scene  Fifth, 180 

Scene  Sixth, 184 

Scene  Seventh, 191 

Scene  Eighth, 195 

Scene  Ninth, 196 

Scene  Tenth, 199 

88    A   Debate  — First    Speaker,    2d    Speaker,   3d 

Speaker,  4th  Speaker,  5th  Speaker,  6th 

Speaker,  7th  Speaker,  8th   Speaker,  9th 

Speaker 200 


CONTENTS. 


1% 


COMIC  AND  AMUSING. 


Election — Baltimore,    Peter,  David 


Bolection. 

1.  ^rom   the 

Nat, 

2.  From  Speed  the  Plough — Farmer  Ashfield,  Dame 

Ashfield 
8    From  the  Mountaineers — Sadi,  Octavian,  Agnes, 

4.  From  the  Rivals — Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  Mrs 

Malaprop,  Lydia,    .... 

5.  From  William  Tell — Waldman,  Michael,    . 

6.  Clownish  Ignorance — Humphry,  Pounce,   . 

'I.  P'rom    Black-Eyed    Susan  —  Admiral,   "William 

Witnesses,            .         .         .     '    . 
8.  The    Will — Swipes,    Currie,   Frank   Middleton 
Squire  Drawl, 

From  the  Rivals  —  Acres,  Captain  Absolute 
David,  Servant,  .... 

Miseries  of  Wealth— Grub,  Consol, 

From  the  Bashful  Man — Sir  Thomas  Friendly 
Blushington,  Frank,  Gyp,  Evans,  Nicholas, 
Lady  Friendly,  Dinah,         ... 

Scene  Second 

A  Man  in  Love  with  his  Wife — Bashful,  Love 


9. 


10. 
11. 


12. 


more, 

From    Paul    Pry  — Tankard,    Billy,  Oldbutt 

Paul  Pry,  .         .         .         ... 

From  the  Poor  Gentleman — Frederic,  Sir  Robert 

Bramble,  Humphrey  Dobbins,    . 
From  the  Sword  —  Lord   Onsburg,   Augustus, 

Henrietta,  Frank  Raynton,  William  Rayn 

ton,  Edw.  Dudley,  Charles  Dudley,  Crape, 

Scene  Second, 

Marriage  of  a  Daughter—  Grub,  Mrs.  Grub, 
n.  From  the  Rivals — Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  Cap 

tain  Absolute — Fag,  Errand  Boy, 
Scene  Second, 

18.  The  Disappointed  Suitors — Mr.  Maynard,  Colo- 

nel Faulkland,  Mr.  Ellis,  Servant, 

19.  Ignorance  and  Wilfulness — Student,  Deacon, 
20    From  the  Doctor  in  spite  of  Himself — Gregory 

Sir  Jasper,  Squire  Robert,  Harry,  James, 

Dorcas,        .         .         .         . 

Scene  Second,     ...... 

Scene  Third, 

21.  From  the  Weathercock— Old  Fickle,  Tristram 

Fickle,  Briefwit,  Sneer,  Barber, 
Scene  Second, 

22.  From  the  Clandestine  Marriage — Mr.  Stirling 

Sir  John  Melville,       .         .         .     Colman 

23.  From    Education  —  Damper,    Templeton,    Mrs, 

Templeton,  Servant, 


14 


15 


16. 


Baillie    2 1 2 

Anonymous,  218 
Cclman,  215 

Sheridan,  217 

Knowles,  220 

222 

Anonymous,  224 

Anonymous,  227 

Sheridan,  230 
O'Brien,  233 

236 
238 

Murphy,  243 

Poole,  246 

Colman,  250 


Berquin,  253 

267 

O'Brien,  262 

Sheridan,  265 
269 

272 
Anonymous,  275 


Fielding,  280 
284 
287 

Allingham,  291 
295 

and  Garrick,  301 

Morton,  304 


CONTENTS. 


Selection.  Paga 

24.  From  the  School  for  Scandal  — Sir  Peter  Teazle, 

Lady  Teazle, Sheridan,  807 

25.  Lady  GraCe,  Lady  Townly,         .  Cibber  and  Vanburgh,  309 

26.  From   the   School   for   Rakes  —  Lord  Eustace, 

Frampton, '      .        Centlivre,  314 

27.  From  the  Beaux  Stratagem — Boniface,  Aim  well,       Farquhar,  316 

28.  Fron  Nolens  Yolens — Sir  Christopher,  Quiz,     .  Hall,  318 

29.  Reward  of  Benevolence — Job  Thornberry,  John 

Bur,  Peregrine, Caiman   328 

80.  From  As  You  Like   It — Duke   Frederick,  Le 
Beau,    Charles,    Oliver,    Orlando,    Adam, 
Dennis,  Touchstone,  Rosalind,  Celia,  Lords, 
Attendants,         .         .         .         .         .         .    Shakspeare,  330 

Scene  Second,     .......  334 

31.  Love,    Duty,  and    Parental  Authority — Mabel, 

Godwin,  Arthur  Montressor,       .         .         .   Anonymous,  338 
Scene  Second, 340 

82.  From   a   Cure    for   the    Heart- Ache — Vortex, 

Young  Rapid,  Old  Rapid,  Bronze,  Land- 
lord, Waiter,  Servant,  Miss  Vortex,   .         .  Morton,  345 

Scene  Second, 352 

Scene  Third, 356 

83.  From   Fish   out  of  Water—Sir  George  Court- 

ley,  Alderman  Gayfare,  Charles  Gayfare, 
Steward,  Sam  Savory,  Footman,  Ellen 
Courtley,  Lucy,  .         .         .         .         .  Lunn,  360 

.    Scene  Second, 377 

Scene  Third, 385 

84.  From  the   Fashionable   Lover — Mortimer,  Au- 

brey, Colin  Macleod,    Bridgemore,    Nap- 

thali,  Servant, Cumberland,  388 

Scene  Second, 390 

Scene  Third, 393 

Scene  Fourth, 395 

85.  From  the  West-Indian — Lady  Rusport,  Charlotte 

Rusport,  Charles  "Dudley,  Major  O'Flagh- 

erty,  Varland,  Captain  Dudley,  .         .  Cumberlaiid,  398 

36.  From  the  Village  Lawyer — Scout,  Snarl,  Mit- 

timus, Sheepface,  Shepherd,  Charles,  Clerk, 

Constables,  &c.,  Mrs.  Scout,        .         .         .  Anonymous,  411 

37.  From   Fortune's    Frolic  —  Robin    Roughhead, 

Snacks,  Villagers,  Frank,  Dolly,  Margery,     Allingham,  425 

38.  Cousin  Peter — Cousin  Peter,  Manon,  Louis,  Mrs. 

Leclere, .     Souvestre,  433 

39.  The  Lawyers— The  Judge,  His  Son,  The  Sec- 

retary  and    the    Servant    (as    Lawyers), 

Prompter, Racine,  449 


JN£¥ 
SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

SERIOUS   AND   SENTIMENTAL. 


I.— GAMBLER'S  REMORSE.— Moore. 
BEVERLY JARVIS. 

Beverly.  [Alone.]  Why,  what  a  worJd  is  this  !  The  slave 
that  digs  for  gold  receives  his  daily  pittance,  and  sleeps 
contented;  while  those  for  whom  he  labors  convert  their 
good  to  mischief,  making  their  abundance  the  means  of 
want.  O  shame,  shame !  Had  fortune  given  me  but  a 
little,  that  little  had  been  still  my  own.  But  plenty  leads  to 
waste ;  and  shallow  streams  maintain  their  currents,  while 
swelling  rivers  beat  down  their  banks,  and  leave  their 
channels  empty.  What  had  I  to  do  with  play  2  I  wanted 
nothing — my  wishes  and  my  means  were  equal.  The  poor 
followed  me  with  blessings ;  love  scattered  roses  on  my 
pillow ;  and  morning  waked  me  to  delight.  Oh,  bitter 
thought '  that  leads  me  to  what  I  was  by  what  I  am.  1 
would  forget  both.  Who's  there?  [Jarvis  enters.]  Jar  vis ! 
Why  this  intrusion?     Your  absence  had  been  kinder  ? 

Jarvis.     I  came  in  duty.  Sir.     If  it  be  troublesome — 

Bev.  It  is — I  would  be  private,  hid  even  from  myself. 
Who  sent  you  hither? 

Jar.  One  who  would  persuade  you  home  again.  My 
mistress  is  not  well — her  tears  told  me  so. 

Bev.  Go  with  thy  duty  there,  then.  But  does  she  weep? 
I  am  to  blame  to  let  her  weep.  Prithee  begone.  I  have 
no  business  for  thee. 

2 


14  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Jar.  Yes,  Sir,  to  lead  you  from  this  pla^^e.  I  am  your 
servant  still.  Your  prosperous  fortune  blessed  my  old  age : 
if  that  has  left  you,  I  must  not  leave  you. 

Bev.  Not  leave  me  !  Recall  past  time  then  ;  or  through 
this  sea  of  storms  and  darkness,  show  me  a  star  to  guide  me. 
But  what  canst  thou  do? 

Jar.  The  little  that  I  can  I  will.  You  have  been  gener 
ous  to  iTie.     I  would  not  offend  you,  Sir.  but — 

Bev.  No.  Think'st  thou  I  would  ruin  thee  too?  I  have 
enough  of  shame  already.  My  wife !  Wouldst  thou  be- 
lieve it,  Jarvis,  I  have  not  seen  her  this  long  night.  J,  who 
have  loved  her  so.  that  every  hour  of  absence  seemed  a  gap 
in  life  !  But  other  bonds  have  held  me.  0  !  I  have  played 
the  boy,  dropping  my  counters  in  the  stream,  and  reaching 
to  redeem  them,  have  lost  myself!  Why  wjit  thou  follow 
misery  ?  Or,  if  thou  wilt,  go  to  thy  mistress.  She  has  no 
guilt  to  sting  her,  and  therefore  may  be  comforted. 

Jar.     I  have  no  heart,  Sir,  to  see  this  change. 

Bev.  Nor  I  to  bear  it.  But  how  speaks  the  world  of 
me? 

Janr.  As  of  a  good  man  dead — of  one  who.  walking  in  a 
dream,  fell  down  a  precipice.     The  world  is  sorry  for  you. 

Bev.  Ay,  and  pities  me.  Says  it  not  so  ?  I'll  tell  thee 
what  it  says.  It  calls  me  villain — a  treacherous  husband,  a 
cruel  father,  a  false  brother — one  lost  to  nature  and  her 
charities ;  or,  to  say  all  in  one  short  word,  it  calls  me — 
gamester.     Go  to  thy  mistress — I'll  see  her  presently. 

Jar.  And  why  not  now?  Bude  people  press  upon  her: 
loud,  bawling  creditors,  wretches  who  know  no  pity.  I  met 
one  at  the  door — he  would  have  seen  my  mistress.  I  wanted 
means  of  present  payment,  so  promised  it  to-morrow.  But 
others  may  be  pressing,  and  she  has  grief  enough  already. 
Your  absence  hangs  too  heavy  on  her. 

Bev.  Tell  her  I'll  come  then.  I  have  a  moment's  busi- 
ness. But  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  my  distress  ?  Thy 
honesty  has  left  thee  poor,  and  age  wants  comfort.  Keep 
what  thou  hast  for  cordials;  lest,  between  thee  and  the 
grave,  misery  assail  thee. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  Ifi 


II.— THE  OKVR AN. —Morton. 
HENRY EVERGREEN. 

[Note. — Henry  is  unacquainted  with  his  parentage ;  Evergreen 
kijows,  but  dares  not  disclose  it.] 

Evergreen.     Henry,  well  met. 

Henry.     Have  you  seen  strangers? 

Everg.     No ! 

Hen.  Two  but  now  have  left  this  place.  They  spoke  of 
a  lost  child.  My  busy  fancy  led  me  to  think  I  was  the 
object  of  their  search.  I  pressed  forward,  but  they  avoided 
me. 

Everg.  No,  no  ;  it  could  not  be  you ;  for  no  one  on  earth 
knows  but  myself,  and — 

Hen.     Who— Sir  Philip  Blandford  ? 

Everg.  I  am  sworn,  you  know,  my  dear  boy;  I  am 
solemnly  sworn  to  silence. 

Hen.  True,  my  good  old  friend  ;  and  if  the  knowledge  of 
who  I  am  can  only  be  obtained  at  the  price  of  thy  perjury, 
let  me  forever  remain  ignorant — let  the  corroding  thought 
still  haunt  my  pillow,  cross  me  at  every  turn,  and  render  me 
insensible  to  the  blessings  of  health  and  liberty  ?  Yet  in 
vain  do  I  suppress  the  thought — who  am  I  ?  Why  thus 
abandoned  ?  perhaps  the  despised  offspring  of  guilt.  Ah  i 
is  it  so ! 

Everg.     Henry,  do  I  deserve  this  ? 

Hen.  Pardon  me,  good  old  man  !  I'll  act  more  reasona- 
bly ;  I'll  deem  thy  silence  mercy. 

Everg.     That's  wisely  said. 

Hen.  Yet  it  is  hard  to  think  that  the  most  detested 
reptile  that  nature  forms,  or  man  pursues,  has  when  he  gains 
his  den,  a  parent's  pitying  breast  to  shelter  in  ;  but  I — 

Everg.     Come,  come,  no  more  of  this. 

Hen.  Well — I  visited  to-day  that  young  man  who  was 
so  grievously  bruised  by  the  breaking  of  his  team. 

Everg.     That  was  kindly  done,  Henry. 

Hen.  I  found  him  suffering  under  extreme  torture,  yet  a 
ray  of  joy  shot  from  his  languid  eye — for  his  medicine  was 
administered  by  a  father's  hand  — it  was  a  mother's  precious 
teaj  that  dropt  upon  his  wound.     Oh,  how  I  envied  him  ! 

Everg.     Still  on  the  same  subject — I  tell  thee  if  thou  an 


16  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

not  acknowledged  by  thy  race,  why,  then  become  the  noble 
founder  of  a  new  one.  The  most  valuable  carnations  were 
once  seedlings — and  the  pride  of  my  flower-bed  is  now  a 
Henry,  which,  when  known,  will  be  envied  by  every  florist 
in  Britain.     Come  with  me  to  the  castle  for  the  last  time. 

Hen.     The  last  time  ! 

Everg.  Ay,  boy  ;  for  when  Sir  Philip  arrives,  thou  must 
avoid  him. 

Hen.  Not  see  him  !  Where  exists  the  power  that  shall 
prevent  me? 

Everg.  Henry,  if  you  value  your  own  peace  of  mind,  if 
you  value  an  old  man's  comfort,  avoid  the  castle. 

Hen.  [Aside.']  I  must  dissemble  with  this  honest  crea- 
ture— Weil,  I  am  content. 

Everg.  That's  right — that's  right,  Henry — be  but  thou 
resigned  and  virtuous,  and  he  who  clothes  the  lily  of  the 
field,  will  be  a  parent  to  thee. 


HI— VIRTUE— GENEROUS  AND  UNSUSPECTING.—Jfor^ow. 

SIR  PHILIP  BLANDFORD HENRY. 

[Note. — Sir  Philip  is  the  uncle  of  Henry,  but  conceals  the  fact,  and 
spurns  him  from  feelings  of  remorse.] 

Sir  Philip.  By  what  title,  Sir,  do  you  thus  intrude  on 
me? 

Henry.  By  one  of  an  imperious  nature ;  the  title  of  a 
creditor. 

Sir  P.     I  your  debtor  ! 

Hen.  Yes  ;  for  you  owe  me  justice.  You,  perhaps,  with- 
hold from  me  the  inestimable  treasure  of  a  parent's  blessing. 

Sir  P.  (Impatiently.)  To  the  business  that  brought 
you  hither. 

Hen.  Thus  then.  I  believe  this  is  your  signature  [Fro- 
duchig  a  bond.'] 

Sir  P.     Ah  !     [recovering  himself^     It  is — 

Hen.  Affixed  to  a  bond  of  £1.000,  which,  by  assignment, 
is  mine.  By  virtue  of  this,  I  discharge  the  debt  of  your 
worthy  tenant,  Ashfield;  who,  it  seems,  was  guilty  of  the 
crime  of  vindicating  the  injured  and  pi-otecting  the  unfor- 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  17 

tunate.  Now,  Sir  Philip,  the  retribution  my  hate  demandH 
is  that  what  remains  of  this  obligation  may  not  be  now 
paid  to  me.  but  wait  your  entire  convenience  and  leisure. 

Sir  P.     No  ;  that  must  not  be. 

Hen.  Oh,  Sir,  why  then  oppress  an  innocent  man? 
Why  spurn  from  you  a  heart  that  pants  to  serve  you  ?  Nc 
answer.     Farewell  \_Going.'] 

Sir  P.  Hold  -  one  word  before  we  part.  Tell  me,  how 
came  you  possessed  of  this  bond  ? 

Hen.  A  stranger,  whose  kind  benevolence  stept  in  and 
saved— 

Sir  P.     His  name  ? 

Hen.     Morrington. 

Sir  P.  Fiend!  tormentor!  has  he  caught  me?  You 
have  seen  this  Morrington  ? 

Hen.     Yes. 

Si?-  P.     Did  he  speak  of  me  ? 

He7i.  He  did — and  of  your  daughter.  '•  Conjure  him." 
said  he,  '•  not  to  sacrifice  the  lovely  Emma  by  a  marriage 
her  heart  revolts  at.  Tell  him  the  life  and  fortune  of  a  pa- 
rent are  not  his  own.  He  holds  them  but  in  trust  for  his 
offspring.  Bid  him  reflect,  that  while  his  daughter  merits 
the  brightest  reward  a  father  can  bestow,  she  is  by  that 
father  doomed  to  the  harshest  fate  that  tyranny  can  inflict.'' 

Sir  P.  Torture  I  [  With  vehemence.']  Did  he  say  who 
caused  this  sacrifice  ? 

Hen.  He  told  me  you  had  been  duped  of  your  fortune 
by  sharpers. 

Sir  P.  Ay,  he  knows  that  well !  Young  man,  mark 
me.  This  Morrington,  whose  precepts  wear  the  face  of 
virtue,  and  whose  practice  seems  benevolence,  was  the  chief 
of  the  banditti  that  ruined  me. 

Hen.     Is  it  possible  1 

Sir  P.  That  bond  you  hold  in  your  hand  was  obtained 
by  robbery. 

Hen.     Confusion  ! 

Sir  P.  Not  by  the  thief  who,  encountering  you  as  a 
man,  stakes  life  against  life,  but  by  that  most,  cowardly  vil 
lain,  who,  in  the  moment  when  reason  sleeps  and  passion  is 
roused,  draws  snares  around  you,  and  hugs  you  to  your 
ruin  ;  then  fattening  on  the  spoil,  insults  the  victim  he  has 
made. 

Hen.     On  your  word,  is  Morrington  that  man  ? 

Sir  P.     On  my  word,  he  is 
A  '       2* 


18  KEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Hen.  Thus,  then,  I  annihilate  the  detested  act,  [^Tears 
the  bond']  and  thus  I  tread  upon  a  villain's  friendship  ! 

Sir  P.     Rash  boy  !     What  have  you  done  I 

Hen.     An  act  of  justice  to  Sir  Philip  Blandford. 

Sir  P.     For  which  you  claim  my  thanks  ? 

Hen.  Sir,  I  am  thanked  already  here  [/;^  his  heart] 
Confusion  to  such  wealth.  Compared  with  its  possession, 
poverty  is  splendor.  Fear  not  for  me — I  shall  not  feel  the 
piercing  cold ;  for  in  that  man  whose  heart  beats  warmly 
for  his  fellow-creatures,  the  blood  circulates  with  freedom. 
My  food  shall  be  what  few  of  the  pampered  sons  of  great- 
ness can  boast  of,  the  luscious  bread  of  independence,  and 
the  opiate  that  brings  me  sleep  will  be  the  recollection  of 
the  day  passed  in  innocence. 

Sir  P.     Noble  boy  !     Oh,  Blandford  ! 

Hen.     Ah! 

Sir  P.     What  have  I  said  ? 

Hen.     You  called  me  Blandford  ! 

Sir  P.     'Twas  error— 'twas  madness. 

Hen.  Blandford!  a  thousand  hopes  and  fears  rush  on 
my  heart.  Disclose  to  me  my  birth — be  it  what  it  may,  I 
am  your  slave  forever.  Refuse  me — you  create  a  foe,  firm 
and  implacable  as — 

Sir  P.  Ah !  am  I  threatened  ?  Do  not  extinguish  the 
spark  of  pity  my  breast  is  warmed  with. 

Hen.     I  will  not.     Oh  !   forgive  me  ! 

Sir  P.  Yes,  on  one  condition — leave  me.  Ah  !  some 
one  approaches.     Begone,  I  insi>t — I  entreat. 

Hen.  That  word  has  charmed  me.  I  obey,  Sir  Philip— 
you  may  hate  but  you  shall  respect  me. 


HrstirfTs.    Como,  lead  mo  to  the  block — bear  him  my  he  id; 
riioy  smile  nt  mo,  who  shortly  sha  I  be  A^AS.—R>ckirJ  111. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  19 

IV.~FI10M  THE   FOUNDLING   OF   THE   FOREST— Z>imo/id 

DE    VALMONT FLORIAN l'cLAIR. 

Florian.  You  were  speaking,  sir,  of  Geraldine — Jovely 
Geraldine  !     Ah,  sir,  is  she  not  admirable  ? 

De  Valmont.  The  last  fond  wish  left  clinging  to  this  heart, 
is  Geraldine's  felicity.  I  shall  endeavor  to  secure  it,  by  unit- 
ing her  in  marriage  with  a  worthy  object. 

Flor.  Sir,  marriage,  did  you  say  ?  gracious  heavens ! 
marriage  ? 

De  Val.  What !  does  the  idea  of  Geraldine's  marriage  af 
flict  you  ? 

Flor.  I  am  not  such  an  ingrate — her  happiness  is  the 
prayer  of  my  soul. 

De  Val.  (After  a  pause)  Florian,  draw  yourself  a  seat. 
[Florian  presents  a  chair  to  the  count,  and  then  seats  him- 
self.) You  behold  me,  such  as  I  have  seemed,  even  from 
your  infancy — a  suffering,  broken  hearted  man.  I  once  pos- 
sessed a  heart  for  enterprise,  an  arm  for  achievement.  Grief, 
not  time,  has  palsied  these  endowments.  Like  the  eaglet, 
rushing  from  his  nest  against  the  sun,  I  entered  upon  life. 

Flor.  Ah,  that  malignant  clouds  should  obscure  so  bright 
a  dawn  ! 

De  Val.  My  spirit  panted  for  a  career  of  arms  :  at  the 
age  of  twenty,  I  embraced  the  cause  of  my  religion  and  my 
king.  Then,  Florian,  it  was,  I  welcomed  love  !  a  first,  a  last, 
an  eternal  passion ! 

Flor.  Oh,  sir,  desist — these  recollections  shake  your  mind 
too  strongly. 

De  Val.  No,  let  me  proceed,  Florian  !  I  wooed  and  won 
an  angel — a  lovely  infant  blessed  our  union.  My  felicity 
seemed  perfect !  Now,  Florian.  mark  !  My  country  a  sec- 
ond time  called  me  to  her  battles  ;  I  left  my  kinsman.  Lon- 
gueville,  to  guard  the  dear  ones  of  my  soul — I  was  wounded 
and  made  prisoner — a  rumor  of  my  death  prevailed  through 
France.  I  trembled  lest  Eugenia  should  receive  the  tale, 
and  flew  to  prevent  her  terrors. — Oh  !  oh  !  the  blood  now 
curdles  round  my  heart — the  wolves  of  war  had  rushed  upon 
my  slumbering  fold — my  wife — my  infant — I  trampled  on 
their  ashes  ! 

Flor.  Tremendous  hour  !  so  dire  a  shock  might  paralyze 
a  Roman  firmness 


20  NT5W    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

r 

De  Val.  Florian,  there  is  a  grief  that  never  found  its  im- 
age yet  in  words.  I  prayed  for  death  ;  I  plunged  into  the 
deepest  solitudes.  At  the  close  of  a  sultry  day.  I  entered  a 
forest  at  the  foot  of  the  Cevennes.  On  the  sudden,  a  fainl 
and  feeble  moan  pierced  my  ear ;  and,  lo !  a  desolate  infant 
left  to  perish  in  the  wilderness  !  It  was  famishing  !  I  raised 
it  to  my  breast ;  its  little  arms  twined  feebly  round  my  neck. 
Florian,  thou  wert  heaven's  gracious  instrument  to  reclaim  a 
truant  to  his  duties  !  Eighteen  years  have  followed  that 
event. 

Flor.  Sir.  those  years  shall  not  pass  unforgotten.  An  or- 
phan's blessing  wafts  their  eulogy  to  heaven.  [He  casts  him- 
self at  De  Vol monf  s  feet.) 

De  Val.  Rise,  young  man  !  your  virtues  have  repaid  my 
cares.  Florian,  let  Greraldine  become  your  wife — be  you 
hereafter  the  protector  of  my  people. 

Flor.  Merciful  powers  !  I !  the  child  of  accident  and  mys- 
tery— a  wretched  foundling  ! — I ! — 

De  Val.  Young  man,  fortune  forbade  you  to  inherit  a 
name,  but  she  has  granted  you  a  prouder  boast ;  you  have 
founded  one.  Your  marriage  shall  receive  my  blessing. 
Farewell.     [Exit  suddenly.) 

Flor.  Heard  I  aright  ?  Yes,  he  pronounced  it,  "  Geral- 
dine  is  thine."  Earth's  gross  substantial  touch  is  felt  no 
more — I  mount  in  air,  and  rest  on  sunbeams  !  Oh,  if  I 
dream  now,  royal  Mab !  abuse  me  ever  with  thy  dear  de- 
ceits ! 

[Enter  L^  Clair.) 

E  C.  So,  captain  !  you  are  well  encountered.  I  have  sad 
forebodings  that  our  shining  course  of  arms  is  threatened 
with  eclipse. 

Flor.  How  now,  my  doughty  squire — what  may  be  our 
present  jeopardy  ? 

EC.  Ah,  captain,  the  sex — the  dear  enchanting  sex: 
captain,  heroes  are  but  men,  men  but  flesh,  and  flesh  but 
weakness. 

Flor.     Knave  !  I  am  to  be  married  ;  varlet,  wish  me  joy. 

EC.  Certainly,  captain,  I'do  wish  you  joy  :  for  when  a 
man  has  once  determined  upon  matrimony,  he  acts  wisely 
to  collect  the  congratulations  of  his  friends  beforehand.  May 
T  take  the  freedom  to  inquire  the  lady  ? 

Flor.     L'Clair,  the  peerless,  priceless  Geraldine. 

EC.  Peerless,  I  grant  the  lady;  but  as  to  priceless,  I 
should  think,  for  my  own  poor  particular,  that  when  I  bar- 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  21 

tered  my  liberty,  I  was  paying  full  value  for  my  goods,  be- 
sides a  swinging  overcharge  for  the  fashion  of  the  make. 

Flrn-.  Tush,  man  !  'tis  not  by  form  or  feature  I  compute 
my  prize.  Geraldine's  mind,  not  her  beauty,  is  the  magnet 
of  my  love.  (Exei(7it\ 


v.— FROM   ALI   VKQMA,— Payne. 
I TALATHON. 


Talathon.     Now,  stranger,  what  would  you  with  me  ? 

Zenocles.     Are  we  by  ourselves  ? 

Tai.     Whence  this  mystery  1     AVho  art  thou  ? 

Zeno.     {^Discovering  himself.)     Zenocles. 

Tal.    Zenocles  ! 

Zeno.  Anguish  has  worn  my  features.  Ten  years  of  suf- 
fering work  awful  changes.     Do  you  still  doubt  ? 

Tal.     The  savior  of  my  life — 

Zeno.     Now  comes  to  save  your  honor.. 

Tal.  How  chances  this  ?  K  Suliot  chief,  the  ambjtssador 
of  Ismail ! 

Zeno.  That  character  is  a  stratagem  ;  'twas  assumed  but 
to  open  these  gates,  and  enable  me  to  converse  with  Talathon. 

Tal.     And  what  do  you  expect  from  Talathon  ? 

Zeno.  Mark  me !  You  are  not  the  only  Greek,  who, 
spell-bound  by  the  genius  of  Ali  'Ihebelen,  is  become  the 
accomplice  of  his  crimes.  But  a  new  glory  awaits  you — the 
glory  of  effacing  the  stain  which  soils  your  name,  by  the 
destruction  of  your  country's  tyrant. 

Tal.  Shall  the  chief  of  Ali's  warriors  betray  him  in  ad- 
versity ? 

Zeno.  Have  you  not  already  betrayed  your  country  in  ad- 
versity, by  joining  Ali  ?  Is  it  only  towards  Greece,  that 
her  sons  think  perjury  no  crime  ?  Oh,  men  !  men  !  Off- 
spring of  the  soil  which  has  sent  arts  and  refinement  through 
the  earth ;  which  has  filled  history  with  its  first  great  ex- 
amples ;  which  has  taught  countries  unborn,  when  it  was 
greatest,  to  be  free  and  great — Oh  !  men  of  Greece,  can  ye 
alone  crouch  tamely  to  the  barbarian,  and  invite  the  yoke, 
while  distant  nations  madden  at  the  story  of  your  wrongs, 
and  burn  to  vindicate   your  cause  !     Sons  of  heroes  start 


22  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

from  your  lethargy !  Crush  the  insulter  of  the  land  of 
glory  ;  show  the  expecting  world  that  Grreece  is  not  extinct, 
and  give  some  future  Homer  themes  for  a  mightier  Iliad. 

Tal.  Zenocles,  your  voice  rouses  me!  I  feel  what  I 
have  lost,  and  am  ready  to  redeem  it  Speak  on. — What  is 
your  purpose  ? 

Zeno.  Ismail,  trembling  for  the  life  of  his  father,  now  ^ 
captive  in  your  charge,  has  made  me  the  bearer  of  a  treaty, 
which  demands  that  Ibrahim  be  set  free  ;  and  upon  this  con- 
dition grants  that  Ali,  with  his  family,  may  depart  on  the 
seas  of  Epirus.     But.  should  Ali  accept  the  terms — 

Tal.     What  then? 

Zeno.  May  he  not  collect  fresh  armies  to  harass  Greece 
anew,  when  his  wasting  strength  shall  have  had  time  to  re- 
cover? And  shall  we  stand  by,  and  see  him  bear  to  a 
strange  clime  the  spoils  of  our  country,  and  the  life  which 
has  derived  its  fame  only  from  her  miseries.  No.  I  will  await 
him  with  a  chosen  band,  upon  the  shore.  Here,  in  the  sight 
of  Epirus  shall  the  spoiler's  blood  bathe  the  soil  he  has 
made  desolate  !  Our  long  humbled  land  shall  rise  up  once 
more  a  nation,  and  heaven-topped  Olympus  tremble  with 
delight,  as  its  echoes  once  more  awaken  to  the  shouts  of 
liberty ! 

Tal.  Zenocles,  command  me. — But  stay. — Should  Ali  re- 
ject the  treaty,  and  decide  to  tempt,  to  the  last,  the  chance 
of  battle  in  the  citadel — 

Zeno.  Then.  Talathon,  to  you,  and  to  you  only  can  we 
look.  The  warriors  of  Ali,  whom  you  command,  have  more 
than  once  signalized  their  devotion  to  you.  You  must  enlist 
them  in  our  cause.  Their  dread  of  Ismail  may  make  them 
eager  to  earn  their  pardon  of  the  foe,  and  their  feeble  attach- 
ment to  Ali  will  soon  be  lost  in  the  hope  of  sharing  the 
spoils  of  his  overthrow. 

Tal.     Yanina  shall  be  avenged ! 

Z^eno.  Exult,  my  countrymen,  exult !  The  hour  is  come, 
when,  like  your  own  Ulysses,  ye  shall  cast  off  the  weeds  of 
fciavery,  and  once  more  be  masters  of  your  homes. 

(^Exeunt.) 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  23 

VL— LOST  REPUTATION— FROM  OTHELLO.— Shakspearv. 

lAGO CASSIO. 

lago.     What !  be  you  hurt,  lieutenant  ? 

Cass.     Past  all  surgery. 

Tago.     Marry,  heaven  forbid  ! 

Cass.  Reputation  !  reputation  !  reputation  !  Oh  T  have 
lost  my  reputation !  I  have  lost  the  immortal  part  of 
myself;  and  what  remains  is  bestial.  My  reputation !  lago, 
my  reputation — 

lago.  As  I  am  an  honest  man,  I  thought  you  had  re- 
ceived some  bodily  wound  :  there  is  more  sense  in  that,  than 
in  reputation.  Reputation  is  an  idle  and  false  imposition : 
oft  got  without  merit,  and  lost  without  deserving.  What, 
man  !  There  are  ways  to  recover  the  general  again  ;  sue  to 
him.  and  he  is  yours. 

Cass. '  I  will  rather  sue  to  be  despised — Drunk !  and 
squabble  !  swagger  !  swear  !  and  discourse  fustian  with  one's 
own  shadow!  Oh  thou  invincible  spirit  of  wine!  if  thou 
hast  no  name  to  be  known  by.  let  us  call  thee  Devil. 

lago.  What  was  he  that  you  followed  with  your  sword ! 
what  had  he  done  to  you  ? 

Cass.     I  know  not. 

lago.     Is  it  possible  ? 

Cass.  I  remember  a  mass  of  things,  but  nothing  dis- 
tinctly :  a  quarrel,  but  nothing  wherefore :  Oh,  that  men 
should  put  an  enemy  in  their  mouths  to  steal  away  their 
brains  I  that  we  should  with  joy.  pleasance,  revel,  and 
applause,  transform  ourselves  into  beasts  I 

lago.  Why,  but  you  are  now  well  enough ;  how  came 
you  thus  recovered  ? 

Cass.  It  has  pleased  the  devil  Drunkenness,  to  give  place 
to  the  devil  Wrath.  One  imperfection  shows  me  another,  to 
make  me  frankly  despise  myself 

lago.  Come  :  you  are  too  severe  a  moraler.  As  the  time 
place,  and  the  condition  of  this  country  stands,  I  could 
heartily  wish  this  had  not  befallen  ;  but  since  it  is  as  it  is. 
mend  it  for  your  own  good. 

Cass.  I  will  ask  him  for  my  place  again  ;  he  shall  tell 
me  I  am  a  drunkard  I  Had  I  as  many  mouths  as  Hydra, 
such  an  answer  would  stop  them  all.     To  be  now  a  sensible 


24  NRW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

man,  by  and  by  a  fool,  and  presently  a  beast ! — Even 
inordinate  cup  is  unblessed  and  the  ingredient  is  a  devil. 

lago.  Come:  come:  good  wine  is  a  good  familiar  crea- 
ture, if  it  be  well  used  :  exclaim  no  more  against  it ; — and, 
good  lieutenant  I  think  you  think  I  love  you  ? 

Cass.     I  have  well  approved  it,  sir  : — I  drunk  ! 

lago.  You,  or  any  man  living,  may  be  drunk  some  time, 
man  ?  I  tell  you  what  you  shall  do.  Our  general's  wife  is 
now  the  general ;  confess  yourself  freely  to  her  :  importune 
her  help  to  put  you  in  your  place  again.  She  is  of  so  free, 
so  kind,  so  apt,  so  blessed  a  disposition,  she  holds  it  a  vice  in 
her  goodness,  not  to  do  more  than  she  is  requested.  This 
broken  joint  between  you  and  her  husband  entreat  her  to 
splinter ;  and  my  fortune  against  any  lay  worth  naming, 
this  crack  of  your  love  shall  grow  stronger  than  it  was 
before. 

Cass.     You  advise  me  well. 

lago.  I  protest,  in  the  sincerity  of  love  and  honest  kind- 
ness. 

Cass.  I  think  it  freely ;  and  betimes  in  the  morning,  T 
will  beseech  the  virtuous  Desdemona  to  undertake  for  me. 

lago.     You  are  in  the  right.     Good  night,  lieutenant. 

Cass.     Good  night,  honest  lago. 


VIL— FROM  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.— J/rs.  Hemans. 

ERIBERT ANSELMO. 

Anselmo.     "Will  you  not  hear  me  ? — Oh  !  that  they  who 
need 
Hourly  forgiveness — they  who  do  but  live, 
While  mercy's  voice,  beyond  th'  eternal  stars. 
Wins  the  great  Judge  to  listen,  should  be  thus, 
In  their  vain  exercise  of  ^Dageant  power. 
Hard  and  relentless  ! — Gentle  brother,  yet, 
'Tis  in  your  choice  to  imitate  chat  heaven 
Whose  noblest  joy  is  pardon. 

Eribert.     'Tis  too  late. 
You  have  a  soft  and  moving  voice,  which  pleads 
With  eloquent  melody — bui  they  must  die. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  26 

Ansel.     What,  die  ! — for  words  ? — for  breath,  which  leaves 
no  trace 
To  sully  the  pure  air,  wherewith  it  blends, 
And  is,  being  uttered,  gone  ? — Why,  'twere  enough 
For  such  a  venial  fault,  to  be  deprived 
One  little  day  of  man's  free  heritage, 
Heaven's  warm  and  sunny  light! — Oh  !  if  you  deem 
That  evil  harbors  in  their  souls,  at  least 
Delay  the  stroke,  till  guilt,  made  manifest, 
Shall  bid  stern  justice  wake. 

E?'i.     I  am  not  one 
Of  those  weak  spirits,  that  timorously  keep  watch 
For  fair  occasions,  thence  to  borrow  hues 
Of  virtue  for  their  deeds.     My  school  hath  been 
Where   power  sits  crowned  and    armed.     And,  mark  me, 

brother ! 
To  a  distrustful  nature  it  might  seem 
Strange,  that  your  lips  thus  earnestly  should  plead, 
For  these  Sicilian  rebels.     O'er  my  being 
Suspicion  holds  no  power.     And  yet  take  note — 
— I  have  said — and  they  must  die. 

Ansel.     Have  you  no  fear  ? 

Eri.     Of  what  ?— that  heaven  should  fall  ? 

Ansel     No! — but  that  earth 
Should  arm  in  madness.     Brother!    I  have  seen 
Dark  eyes  bent  on  you,  e'en  'midst  festal  throngs, 
With  such  deep  hatred  settled  in  their  glance. 
My  heart  hath  died  within  me. 

Eri.     Am  I  then 
To  pause,  and  doubt,  and  shrink,  because  a  boy, 
A  dreaming  boy,  hath  trembled  at  a  look  ? 

Ansel     Oh  !  looks  are  no  illusions,  when  the  soul, 
Which  may  not  speak  in  words,  can  find  no  way 
But  theirs,  to  liberty  ! — Have  not  these  men 
Brave  sons,  or  noble  brothers  ? 

Eri.     Yes  !  whose  name 
It  rests  with  me  to  make  a  word  of  fear, 
A  sound  forbidden  'midst  the  haunts  of  men. 

Ansel     But  not  forgotten  ! — Ah !  beware,  beware  ! 
— Nay,  look  not  sternly  on  me.     There  is  one 
Of  that  devoted  band.  Avho  yet  will  need 
Years  to  be  ripe  for  death.     He  is  a  youth, 
A  very  boy,  on  whose  unshaded  cheek 
The  spring-time  glow  is  lingering.     'Twas  but  now 

3 


26  NEW    SCHOOL    PIALOGUES, 

His  mother  )eft  me,  with  a  timid  hope 

Just  dawning  in  her  breast : — and  I — I  dared 

To  foster  its  faint  spark.     You  smile  ! — Oh  !  then  . 

He  will  be  saved  ! 

Eri.     Nay.  I  but  smile  to  think 
What  a  fond  fool  is  hope  ! — She  may  be  taught 
To  dream  that  the  great  sun  will  change  his  course 
To  work  her  pleasure ;  or  the  tomb  give  back 
Its  inmates  to  her  arms.     In  sooth,  'tis  strange  ! 
Yet  with  pitying  heart,  you  should  not  thus 
Have  mocked  the  boy's  sad  mother— I  have  said, 
You  should  not  thus  have  mocked  her ! — Now,  farewell. 

(Exit  Eribert.) 

Ansel.     Oh,  brother !  hard  of  heart ! — for  deeds  like  these 
There  must  be  fearful  chastening,  if  on  high 
Justice  doth  hold  her  state.     And  I  must  tell 
Yon  desolate' mother  that  her  fair  young  son 
Is  thus  to  perish  ! — Haply  the  dread  tale 
May  slay  her  too ; — for  heaven  is  merciful. 
—'Twill  be  a  bitter  task  ! 


VIII.— ORESTES— PYRRHUS.~P/ii%«. 

Orestes.     Before  I  speak  the  message  of  the  Greeks, 
Permit  me,  sir,  to  glory  in  the  title 
Of  their  ambassador  :  since  I  behold 
Troy's  vanquisher,  and  great  Achilles'  son. 
Nor  does  the  son  rise  short  of  such  a  father : 
If  Hector  fell  by  him,  Troy  fell  by  you. 
But  what  your  father  never  would  have  done, 
You  do.     You  cherish  the  remains  of  Troy ; 
And,  by  an  ill-timed  pity,  keep  alive 
The  dying  embers  of  a  ten-years'  war. 
Have  you  so  soon  forgot  the  mighty  Hector  ? 
The  Greeks  remember  his  high-brandished  sword, 
That  filled  their  states  with  widows  and  with  orphans ; 
For  which  they  call  for  vengeance  on  his  son. 
Who  knows  what  he  may  one  day  prove  ?     Who  knows 
But  he  may  brave  us  m  our  ports,  and,  filled 
With  Hector's  fury,  set  our  fleets  on  blaze  ? 
You  may  yourself  live  to  repent  your  mercy. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  27 

Comply,  then,  with  the  Grecians'  just  demand  : 
Satiate  their  vengeance,  and  pres^^rve  yourself! 

Pyrrlms.     The  Greeks  are  for  my  safety  more  concerned 
Than  I  desire  :  I  thought  your  kings  were  met 
On  more  important  counsel.     When  I  heard 
The  name  of  their  ambassador,  I  hoped 
Some  glorious  enterprise  was  taking  birth. 
Is  Agamemnon's  son  despatched  for  this  ? 
And  do  the  Grecian  chiefs,  renowned  in  war. 
A  race  of  heroes,  join  in  close  debate 
To  plot  an  infant's  death  ?     What  right  has  Greece 
To  ask  his  life  ?     Must  I,  must  I  alone, 
Of  all  her  sceptered  warriors,  be  denied 
To  treat  my  captive  as  I  please?     Know,  prince, 
When  Troy  lay  smoking  on  the  ground,  and  each 
Proud  victor  shared  the  harvest  of  the  war, 
Andromache,  and  this  her  son,  were  mine, 
Were  mine  by  lot ;  and  who  shall  wrest  them  from  me  ? 
Ulysses  bore  away  old  Priam's  queen  ; 
Cassandra  was  your  own  great  father's  prize  : 
Did  I  concern  myself  in  what  they  won  ? 
Did  I  send  embassies  to  claim  their  captives? 

Orest.     But,  sir,  we  fear  for  you  and  for  ourselves. 
Troy  may  again  revive,  and  a  new  Hector 
Rise  in  Astyanax.     Then  think  betimes — 

Fyr.  Let  dastard  souls  be  timorously  wise  ; 
But  tell  them,  Pyrrhus  knows  not  how  to  form 
Far-fancied  ills,  and  dangers  out  of  sight.   , 

Ore&t.     Sir,  call  to  mind  the  unrivalled  strength  of  Troy  ; 
Her  walls,  her  bulwarks,  and  her  gates  of  brass. 
Her  kings,  her  heroes,  and  embattled  armies ! 

Pyr.     I  call  them  all  to  mind ;  and  see  them  all 
Confused  in  dust;  all  mixed  in  one  wide  ruin  ; 
All  but  a  child,  and  he  in  bondage  held. 
What  vengeance  can  we  fear  from  such  a  Troy  ? 
If  they  have  sworn  to  extinguish  Hector's  race. 
Why  was  their  vow  for  twelve  long  months  deferred  ? 
Why  was  he  not  in  Priam's  bosom  slain  'I 
He  should  have  fallen  among  the  slaughtered  heaps 
Whelmed  under  Troy.     His  death  had  then  been  just, 
When  age  and  infancy  alike  in  vain 
Pleaded  their  weakness ;  when  the  heat  of  conquest, 
And  horrors  of  the  fight,  roused  all  our  rage, 
And  blindly  hurried  us  through  scenes  of  death, 


28  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

My  fury  then  was  without  bounds:  but  now 

My  wrath  appeased,  must  T  be  cruel  still, 

And.  deaf  to  all  the  tender  calls  of  pity. 

Like  a  cool  murderer,  bathe  my  hands  in  blood — 

Ai   infant's  blood? — No,  prince. — Go,  bid  the  Greeks 

Mark  out  some  other  victim  ;  my  /evenge 

Has  had  its  fill.     What  has  escaped  from  Troy, 

Shall  not  be  saved  to  perish  in  Epirus. 

Orest.     I  need  not  tell  you,  sir,  Astyanax 
Was  doomed  to  death  in  Troy ;  nor  mention  how 
The  crafty  mother  saved  her  darling  son  : 
The  Greeks  do  now  but  urge  their  former  sentence . 
Nor  is't  the  boy,  but  Hector,  they  pursue  : 
The  father  draws  their  vengeance  on  the  son  : 
The  father,  who  so  oft  in  Grecian  blood 
Has  drenched  his  sword :  the  father,  whom  the  Greeks 
May  seek  even  here. — Prevent  them,  sir,  in  time. 

Pyr.     No  !  let  them  come,  since  I  was  born  to  wage 
Eternal  wars.     Let  them  now  turn  their  arms 
On  him  who  conquered  for  them  :  let  them  come. 
And  in  Epirus  seek  another  Troy. 
'Twas  thus  they  recompensed  my  godlike  sire  ; 
Thus  was  Achilles  thanked.     But,  prince,  remember, 
Their  black  ingratitude  then  cost  them  dear. 


lS..~LOGElEli.— Campbell. 

LOCHIEL SEER. 

[To  explain  the  following  beautiful  piece,  it  may  be  necessary  to 
mention  that  Lochiel,  a  highland  chieftain,  while  on  his  march  to  join 
the  standard  of  the  Pretender,  was  met  by  one  of  the  highland  Seers  or 
prophets,  who,  having  the  gift  of  second  sight  or  prophecy,  warns  him 
to  return  and  not  incur  the  certain  ruin  which  awaited  the  unfortunate 
prince  and  his  followers  at  the  battle  which  took  place  on  the  field  of 
Culloden.J 

Seer.     ( With  his  eyes  fixed  as  though  beholding  future 
eve?its.) 
Lochiel !  Lochiel  !  beware  of  the  day 
When  the  lowlands  shall  meet  thee  in  battle  array! 
For  a  field  of  the  dead  rushes  on  to  my  sight, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL,  39 

A.nd  the  clans  of  Cullodcn  are  scattered  in  fight; 
They  rally,  they  bleed,  for  their  kingdom  and  crown ; 
Woe,  woe,  to  the  riders  that  trample  them  down  ! 
Proud  Cumberland  prances,  insulting  the  slain, 
And  their  hoof-beaten  bosoms  are  trod  to  the  plain. 
But  hark  !  through  the  fast  flashing  lightning  of  war, 
What  steed  to  the  desert  flies  frantic  and  far? 
'Tis  thine,  0  Glenullin  !  whose  bride  shall  awake, 
Like  a  love  lighted  watchfire,  all  night  at  the  gate. 
A  steed  comes  at  morning ;  no  rider  is  there  ; 
But  its  bridle  is  red  with  the  sign  of  despair. 
Weep,  Scotland,  to  death  and  captivity  led  ! 
O  weep,  but  thy  tears  ca'nnot  number  the  dead ; 
For  a  merciless  sword  on  Culloden  shall  wave, 
Culloden  !  that  reeks  with  the  blood  of  the  brave. 

Loc/iiel.     Go,  preach  to  the  coward,  thou  death-telling  seer  I 
Or  if  gory  Culloden  so  dreadful  appear. 
Draw,  dotard,  around  thy  old  wavering  sight, 
This  mantle,  to  cover  the  phantoms  of  fright. 

Seer.     Ha  !  laughest  thou,  Lochiel,  my  vision  to  scorn  ? 
Proud  bird  of  the  mountain,  thy  plume  shall  be  torn  ! 
Say,  rushed  the  bold  eagle  exultingly  forth, 
From  his  home,  in  the  dark  rolling  clouds  of  the  north? 
Lo  !  the  death-shot  of  foemen  outspeeding,  he  rode 
Companionless,  bearing  destruction  abroad ; 
But  down  let  him  stoop  from  his  havoc  on  high  ! 
Ah  !  home  let  him  speed,  for  the  spoiler  is  nigh. 
Why  flames  the  far  summit?     Why  shoot  to  the  blast 
Those  embers,  like  stars  fiom  the  firmament  cast? 
'Tis  the  fire  shower  of  ruin,  all  dreadfully  driven 
From  his  eyry  ■  that  beacons  the  darkness  of  heaven. 
Oh,  crested  Lochiel  !  the  peerless  in  might. 
Whose  banners  arise  on  the  battlements'  height, 
Heaven's  fire  is  around  thee,  to  blast  and  to  burn: 
Return  to  thy  dwelling  !  all  lonely  return  ! 
For  the  blackness  of  ashes  shall  mark  where  it  stood, 
And  a  wild  mother  scream  o'er  her  famishing  brood. 

Lochiel.     False   wizard,  avaunt!  I  have  marshalled  my 
clan — 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one  ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock  ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock  ! 


30  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

But  woe  to  his  kindred  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Scotland  her  claymore  indignantly  draws; 
When  her  bonnetted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clamanald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  proud  ! 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array — 

Seer.  Lochiel !  Lochiel !  beware  of  the  day  I 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal. 

But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal. 

'Tis  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore, 

And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 

With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 

Lo !  anointed  by  heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath, 

Behold  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 

Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my  sight, 

Rise  !  rise  !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! — 

'Tis  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the  moors, 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner?     Where? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean  wave,  banished,  forlorn. 

Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  1 

Ah,  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near, — 

The  war  drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier ; 

His  death  bell  is  tolling  !     Oh  mercy,  dispel 

Yon  sight  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell  ! 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 

And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 

Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown,  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale — 

Lochiel.     Down,  soothless  insulter  !     I  trust  not  the  tale. 
For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet. 
So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 
Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  b  ■  strewed  in  their  gore, 
Like  ocean  weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 
Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  cwr  by  chains. 
While  a  kindling  of  life  in  his  bosom  remains. 
Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 
With  his  back  to  the  field  and  his  feet  to  the  foe  ! 
And  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 
Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  31 


X. KING YOUTH HAMET. 


King.     Art  thou  the  chief  of  that  unruly  baud 
Who  broke  the  treaty  and  assailed  the  Moors? 

Youth.     No,  chief  no  leader  of  a  band  am  I. 
The  leader  of  a  band  insulted  me. 
And  those  he  led  basely  assailed  my  life ; 
With  bad  success  indeed.     If  self  defence 
Be  criminal,  0  King !  I  have  offended. 

Kiiig.     With  what  a  noble  confidence  he  speaks? 
See  what  a  spirit  through  his  blushes  breaks ! 
Observe  him,  Hamet. 

Haniet.     I  am  fixed  upon  him. 

King.     Didst  thou  alone  engage  a  band  of  Moors, 
And  make  such  havoc  ?     Sure,  it  cannot  be. 
Recall  thy  scattered  thoughts.     Nothing  advance 
Which  proof  may  overthrow. 

Youth.  What  I  have  said, 

No  proof  can  overthrow.     Where  is  the  man, 
Who,  speaking  from  himself,  not  from  reports 
And  rumors  idle,  will  stand  forth  and  say, 
I  was  not  single  when  the  Moors  attacked  me  I 

Ham.     I  will  not  be  that  man,  though  I  confess 
That  I  came  hither  to  accuse  thee,  youth. 
And  to  demand  thy  punishment. — I  brought 
The  tale  our  soldiers  told. 

Youth.     The  tale  was  false. 

Hafii.     I  thought  it  true,  but  thou  hast  shook  my  faith. 
The  seal  of  truth  is  on  thy  gallant  form. 
For  none  but  cowards  lie. 

King.     Thy  story  tell, 
With  every  circumstance  which  may  explain 
The  seeming  wonder ;  how  a  single  man 
In  such  a  strife  could  stand? 

Youth.     'Twill  cease  to  be 
A  wonder  when  thou  hearest  the  story  told. 
This  morning  on  my  road  to  Oviedo, 
A  while  I  halted  near  a  Moorish  post. 
Of  the  commander  I  inquired  my  way, 
And  told  my  purpose  ;  that  I  came  to  see 
The  famous  combat.     With  a  scornful  smile, 
With  taunting  words  and  gestures  he  replied, 


82  NEW   SCHOOL    DIALOGUBa 

Mocking  my  youth  ;  advised  me  to  retuia 

Back  to  my  father's  house,  and  in  the  ring 

To  dance  with  boys  and  girls.     He  added,  too, 

That  I  should  see  no  combat:   that  no  knight 

Of  Spain  durst  meet  the  champion  of  the  Moors. 

Incensed,  I  did  indeed  retort  his  scorn. 

The  quarrel  grew  apace,  and  I  defied  him 

To  a  green  hill,  which  rose  amidst  the  plain, 

An  arrow's  flight  or  farther  from  his  post. 

Alone  we  sped :  alone  we  drew,  we  fought 

The  Moorish  captain  fell.     Enraged,  his  men 

Flew  to  revenge  his  death.     Secure  they  came, 

Each  with  his  utmost  speed.     Those  who  came  first, 

Single,  I  met  and  slew.     More  wary  grown, 

The  rest  together  joined,  and  all  at  once 

Assailed  me.     Then  I  had  no  hopes  of  life. 

But  suddenly  a  troop  of  Spaniards  came, 

And  charged  my  foes,  who  did  not  long  sustain 

The  shock,  but  fled,  and  carried  to  their  camp 

That  false  report  which  thou,  O  king  !  hast  heard. 

Kifig.     Now  by  my  scepter  and  my  sword  I  swear 
Thou  art  a  noble  youth.     An  angel's  voice 
Could  not  command  a  more  implicit  faith 
Than    thou   from  me  hast  gained.     What   thinkest  thou, 

Hamet  ? 
Is  he  not  greatly  wronged  ? 

Ham.     By  Allah  !  yes. 
The  voice  of  truth  and  innocence  is  bold, 
And  never  yet  could  guilt  that  tone  assume. 
I  take  my  leave,  impatient  to  return 
And  satisfy  my  friends  that  this  brave  youth 
Was  not  the  aggressor. {Exit  Hamet.) 

King.     I  expect  no  less  from  generous  Hamet. 
— Tell  me,  wondrous  youth  ! 
For  much  I  long  to  know,  what  is  thy  name? 
Who  are  thy  parents  ?     Since  the  Moor  prevailed, 
The  cottage  and  the  cave  have  oft  concealed 
From  hostile  hate  the  noblest  blood  of  Spain  ; 
Thy  spirit  speaks  for  thee.     Thou  art  a  shoot 
Of  some  illustrious  stock,  some  noble  house, 
Whose  fortunes  with  their  falling  country  ieW. 

Youth.     Alberto  is  my  name.     I  draw  my  birth 
From  Catalania;  in  the  mountains  there 
My  father  dwells,  and  for  his  own  domains 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  33 

Pays  tribute  to  the  Moor.     He  was  a  soldier; 
Oft  I  have  heard  him  of  your  battles  speak, 
Of  Cavadonga's  and  Olalle's  field. 
But  ever  since  I  can  remember  aught, 
His  chief  employment  and  delight  have  been 
To  train  me  to  the  use  and  love  of  arms: 
In  martial  exercise  we  passed  the  day ; 
Morning  and  evening,  still  the  theme  was  war. 
He  bred  me  to  endure  the  summer's  heat 
And  brave  the  winter's  cold  ;  to  swim  across 
The  headlong  torrent  when  the  shoals  of  ice 
Drove  down  the  stream ;  to  rule  the  fiercest  steeds 
That  on  our  mountains  run.     No  savage  beast 
The  forest  yields  that  I  have  not  encountered. 
Meanwhile  my  bosom  beat  for  nobler  game  ; 
I  longed  in  arms  to  meet  the  foes  of  Spain. 
Oft  I  implored  my  father  to  permit  me, 
Before  the  truce  was  made,  to  join  the  host. 
He  said  it  must  not  be,  I  was  too  young 
For  the  rude  service  of  these  trying  times. 

King.     Thou  art  a  prodigy,  and  fillest  my  mind 
With  thoughts  profound,  and  expectation  high. 
When  in  a  nation,  humbled  by  the  will 
Of  Providence,  beneath  a  haughty  foe, 
A  person  rises  up,  by  nature  reared, 
Sublimp,  above  the  level  of  mankind  ; 
Like  that  bright  bow  the  hand  of  the  Most  High 
Bends  in  the  watery  cloud,  he  is  the  sign 
Of  prosperous  change  and  interposing  Heaven, 


Henry.    O  God  of  battles !  steel  my  soldiers'  hearts, 
Possess  them  not  with  fenr,  take  from  them  uow 
The  sense  of  reckoning,  if  the  opposed  numbers 
Pluck  their  heart  from  i\\&m.— Henry  V 

B 


81  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

XL— FROM  RICHARD  THE  TnmD.—Shakspeare. 
DREAM    OF    CLARENCE 

BRAKENBURY CLARENCE. 

Brakeribury.     Why  looks  your  grace  so  heavily  to-day  ? 

Clarence.     0  !  I  have  passed  a  miserable  night, 
So  full  of  fearful  dreams,  of  ugly  sights, 
That,  as  I  am  a^Christian,  faithful  man, 
I  would  not  spend  another  such  a  night, 
Though  't  were  to  buy  a  world  of  happy  days ; 
So  full  of  dismal  terror  was  the  time. 

Br  ah.     What  was  your  dream,  my  lord  ?  I  pray  you  tell 
me. 

Clar.     Methought  that  I  had  broken  from  the  Tower, 
And  was  embarked,  to  cross  to  Burgundy ; 
And  in  my  company,  my  brother,  Gloster  ; 
Who  from  my  cabin,  tempted  me  to  walk 
Upon  the  hatches ;  whence  we  looked  toward  England, 
And  cited  up  a  thousand  heavy  times, 
During  the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster, 
That  had  befallen  us.     As  we  paced  along 
Upon  the  giddy  footing  of  the  hatches, 
Methought,  that  Gloster  stumbled ;  and,  in  falling, 
Struck  me,  that  thought  to  stay  him,  overboard 
Into  the  tumbling  billows  of  the  main. 
O !  then,  methcJUght,  what  pain  it  was  to  drown  ! 
What  dreadful  noise  of  water  in  mine  ears ! 
What  sights  of  ugly  death  within  mine  eyes  ! 
Methought,  I  saw  a  thousand  fearful  wrecks ; 
A  thousand  men,  that  fishes  gnawed  upon ; 
Wedges  of  gold,  great  anchors,  heaps  of  pearl, 
Inestimable  stones,  unvalued  jewels, 
All  scattered  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea. 
Some  lay  in  dead  men's  skulls ;  and,  in  those  holes 
Where  eyes  did  once  inhabit,  there  were  crept 
(As  't  were  in  scorn  of  eyes)  reflecting  gems. 
That  woo'd  the  slimy  bottom  of  the  deep,  » 

And  mocked  the  dead  bones  that  lay  scattered  by. 

Brak.     Had  you  such  leisure,  m  the  time  of  d.eath, 
To  gaze  upon  the  secrets  of  the  deep  % 


SERIOUS    ATsB    SENTIMENTAL.  35 

Clar.     Methought  I  had,  and  often  did  I  strive 
To  yield  the  ^host ;   but  still  the  eavious  flood 
Kept  in  my  soul,  and  would  not  let  it  forth 
To  seek  the  empty,  vast,  and  wandering  air ; 
But  smothered  it  within  my  panting  bulk, 
Which  almost  burst  to  belch  it  in  the  sea. 

Brak.     Awaked  you  not,  with  this  sore  agony  ? 

Clar.     O  no  ;  my  dream  was  lengthened,  after  life  ! 

0,  then  began  the  tempest  to  my  soul ! 

I  passed,  methought,  the  melancholy  flood, 

With  that  grim  ferryman  which  poets  write  of, 

Unto  the  kingdom  of  perpetual  night. 

The  first,  that  there  did  greet  my  stranger  soul 

Was  my  great  father-in-law,  renowned  Warwick ; 

Who  cried  aloud,  "  What  scourge  for  perjury 

Can  this  dark  monarchy  afford  false  Clarence  ?" 

And  so  he  vanished.     Then  came  wandering  by 

A  shadow,  like  an  angel,  with  bright  hair 

Dabbled  in  blood  ;  and  he  shrieked  out  aloud : 

"  Clarence  is  come — false,  fleeting,  perjured  Clarence — 

That  stabbed  me  in  the  field  by  Tewksbury : 

Seize  on  him,  furies,  take  him  to  your  torments !" 

With  that,  methought,  a  legion  of  foul  fiends 

Environed  me,  and  howled  in  mine  ears 

Such  hideous  cries,  that,  with  the  very  noise, 

1,  trembling,  waked,  and,  for  a  season  after. 
Could  not  believe  but  that  I  was  in  hell ; 
Such  terrible  impression  made  my  dream. 

Brak.     No  marvel,  lord,  that  it  affrighted  you ; 
I  am  afraid,  methinks,  to  hear  you  tell  it. 

Clar.     0,  Brakenbury,  I  have  done  those  things, 
That  now  give  evidence  against  my  soul, 
For  Edward's  sake,  and  see  how  he  requites  me  ! 
0  God  !  if  my  deep  prayers  cannot  appease  thee. 
But  thou  wilt  be  avenged  on  my  misdeeds. 
Yet  execute  thy  wrath  on  me  alone : 
O,  spare  my  guiltless  wife  and  my  poor  children  ! 
— I  pray  the«e,  gentle  keeper,  stay  by  me ; 
My  soul  is  heavy,  and  I  fain  would  sleep. 

Brak.     I  will,  my  lord  :  God  give  your  grace  good  rest ; 
lClare7ice  reposes  himself  on  a  chair. \ 
Sorrow  breaks  seasons  and  reposing  hours, 
Makes  the  night  morning,  and  the  noon-tide  night. 


36  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


—FROM  GUSTAVUS  YASA.— Brooke. 

GUSTAVUS ANDERSON ARNOLDUS OFFICERS DALECAP-- 

LIANS. 

Dalecarlians.     Let  us  all  see  him  ! 

GustavMs.  Amazement,  I  perceive,  -hath  filled  your  hearts, 
And  joy  for  that  your  lost  Gustavus  'scaped 
Through  wounds,  imprisonments,  and  chains,  and  deaths, 
Thus  sudden,  thus  unlooked  for.  stands  before  ye. 
As  one  escaped  from  cruel  hands  I  come, 
From  hearts  that  ne'er  knew  pity,  dark  and  vengeful; 
Who  quaff  the  tears  of  orphans,  bathe  in  blood, 
And  know  no  music  but  the  groans  of  Sweden. 
Yet,  not  because  my  sister's  early  innocence — 
My  mother's  age  now  grind  beneath  captivity  ; 
Nor  that  one  bloody,  one  remorseless  hour 
Swept  my  great  sire  and  kindred  from  my  side  ; 
For  them,  Gustavus  weeps  not. 
But,  0  great  parent,  when  I  think  on  thee ! 
Thy  numberless,  thy  nameless,  shameful  infamies. 
My  widowed  country!     Sweden  !  when  I  think 
Upon  thy  desolation,  spite  of  rage — 
And  vengeance  that  would  choke  them — tears  will  flow. 

Anderson.     Oh,  they  are  villains,  every  Dane  of  them. 
Practised  to  stab  and  smile :  to  stab  the  babe, 
That  smiles  upon  them. 

Arnoldus.     What  accursed  hours 
Roll  o'er  those  wretches,  who,  to  fiends  like  these 
In  their  dear  liberty  have  bartered  more 
Than  worlds  will  rate  for  ? 

Gust.     0  liberty,  heaven's  choice  prerogative  ! 
True  bond  of  law,  thou  social  soul  of  property. 
Thou  breath  of  reason,  life  of  life  itself! 
For  thee  the  valiant  bleed.     0  sacred  liberty! 
Winged  from  the  summer's  snare,  from  flattering  ruin, 
Lilie  the  bold  stork  you  seek^the  wintry  shore, 
Leave  courts,  and  pomps,  and  palaces  to  slaves, 
Cleave  to  the  cold  and  rest  upon  the  storm. 
Upborne  by.  thee,  my  soul  disdained  the  terms 
Of  empire  offered  at  the  hand  of  tyrants. 
With  thee  I  sought  this  favorite  soil ;  with  thee 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  87 

These  favorite  sons  I  sought :  thy  sons,  0  Liberty  ! 
For  even  amid  the  wilds  of  life  you  lead  them, 
Lift  their  low-raftered  cottage  to  the  clouds, 
Smile  o'er  their  heaths  and  from  their  mountain  tops 
Beam  glory  to  the  nations 

All.     LiWty !     Liberty  ! 

Gust.     Are  ye  not  marked,  ye  men  of  Dalecarlia, 
Are  ye  not  marked  by  all  the  circling  world 
As  the  great  stake,  the  last  effort  for  liberty? 
Say,  is  it  not  your  wealth,  the  thirst,  the  food, 
The  scope  and  bright  ambition  of  your  souls  ? 
Why  else  have  you,  and  your  renowned  forefathers, 
From  the  proud  summit  of  their  glittering  thrones, 
Cast  down  the  mightiest  of  your  lawful  kings, 
That  dared  the  bold  infringement  ?     What  but  libertj^, 
Through  the  famed  course  of  thirteen  hundred  years, 
Aloof  hath  held  invasion  from  your  hills. 
And  sanctified  their  shade  ? — And  will  ye,  will  ye 
Shrink  from  the  hopes  of  the  expecting  world  ; 
Bid  your  high  honors  stoop  to  foreign  insult, 
And  in  one  hour  give  up  to  infamy 
The  harvest  of  a  thousand  years  of  glory  ? 

First  Dale.     No. 

Second  Dale.     Never,  never. 

Third  Dale.     Perish  all  first. 

Fourth  Dale.     Die  all. 

Gust.     Yes,  die  by  piecemeal ! 
Leave  not  a  limb  o'er  which  a  Dane  may  triumph. 
Now  from  my  soul  I  joy,  I  joy,  my  friends, 
To  see  ye  feared  ;  to  see,  that  even  your  foes 
Do  justice  to  your  valor  ! — There  they  be, 
The  powers  of  kingdoms,  summed  in  yonder  host, 
Yet  kept  aloof,  yet  trembling  to  assail  ye. 
And  oh,  when  I  look  round  and  see  you  here, 
Of  number  short,  but  prevalent  in  virtue. 
My  heart  swells  high,  and  burns  for  the  encounter. 
True  courage  but  from  opposition  grows. 
And  what  are  fifty,  what  a  thousand  slaves. 
Matched  to  the  sinew  of  a  single  arm 
That  strikes  for  liberty,  that  strikes  to  save 
His  fields  from  fire,  his  infants  from  the  sword, 
And  his  large  honors  from  eternal  infamy  1 
What  doubt  we  then  ? 
Shall  we  shall  we  stand  here, 

4 


3S  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Till  motives  that  might  warm  an  ague's  frost, 

And  nerve  the  coward's  arm,  shall  poorly  serve 

To  wake  us  to  resistance  ? — Let  us  on  ! 

0,  yes,  I  read  your  lovely  fierce  impatience ; 

You  shall  not  be  withheld,  we  will  rush  on  them — 

This  is  indeed  to  triumph,  where  we  hold 

Three  kingdoms  in  our  toil  !  is  it  not  glorious, 

Thus  to  appall  the  bold,  meet  force  with  fury, 

And  push  yon  torrent  back,  till  every  wave 

Flee  to  its  fountain  ? 

And.     On,  lead  us  on^  Gustavus  ;  .one  word  more 
Is  but  delay  of  conquest. 

Gust.     Take  your  wish. 
He  who  wants  arms,  may  grapple  with  the  foe, 
And  so  be  furnished.     You,  most  noble  Anderson, 
Divide  our  powerS;  and  with  the  famed  Olaus 
Take  the  left  route. — You,  Eric,  great  in  arms  ! 
With  the  renowned  Nederbi,  hold  the  right, 
And  skirt  the  forest  down  ;  then  wheel  at  once, 
Confessed  to  view,  and  close  upon  the  vale : 
Myself,  and  my  most  valiant  cousin  here. 
The  invincible  Arvida,  gallant  Sivard, 
Arnoldus,  and  these  hundred  hardy  veterans, 
Will  pour  directly  forth,  and  lead  the  onset. 
Joy,  joy,  I  see  confessed  from  every  eye. 
Your  limbs  tread  vigorous,  and  your  breasts  beat  high ! 
Thin  though  our  ranks,  though  scanty  be  our  bands, 
Bold  are  our  hearts,  and  nervous  are  our  hands. 
With  us,  truth,  justice,  fame,  and  freedom  close. 
Each  singly  equal  to  a  host  of  foes. 


XIII.— THANKFUL  CONFIDENCE  IN  HEAVEN.— Zbteeiw. 

TOBIAS FRANCIS STRANGER. 

Enter  Tobias  from  the  hut. 
Tobias.  Oh  !  how  refceshing,  after  seven  long  weeks,  to 
feel  these  warm  sunbeams  once  again  !  Thanks  !  thanks  ! 
bounteous  heaven,  for  the  joy  I  taste.  [Presses  his  cap  be- 
tween his  hands.,  looks  up  and  prays.  Tlie  Stranger  observes 
him  attentively.^ 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  39 

Francis.  \^lh  the  Stranger.']  This  old  man's  share  of 
earthly  happiness  can  be  but  little ;  yet  mark  how  grateful 
he  is  for  his  portion  of  it. 

Strayiger.  Because,  though  old,  he  is  but  a  child  in  the 
leading-strings  of  hope. 

Fra.     Hope  is  the  nurse  of  life. 

Stra.     And  her  cradle  is  the  grave. 

[^Tobias  replaces  his  cap.] 

Fra.  I  wish  you  joy.  I  am  glad  to  see  you  are  so  much 
recovered. 

2hb.  Thank  you.  Heaven,  and  the  assistance  of  a  kind 
lady,  have  saved  me  for  another  year  or  two. 

Fra.     How  old  are  you,  pray  ? 

2^ob.  Seventy-six.  To  be  sure  I  can  expect  but  little  joy 
before  I  die.     Yet,  there  is  another  and  a  better  world. 

Fra.     To  the  unfortunate,  then,  death  is  scarce  an  evil  ? 

Tob.  Am  I  so  unfortunate?  Do  I  not  enjoy  this  glori- 
ous morning?  Am  I  not  in  health  again?  Believe  me, 
sir,  he  who,  leaving  the  bed  of  sickness,  for  the  first  time 
breathes  the  fresh,  pure  air,  is,  at  that  moment,  the  happiest 
of  his  Maker's  creatures. 

Fra.     Yet  'tis  a  happiness  that  fails  upon  enjoyment. 

Tob.  True ;  but  less  so  in  old  age.  Some  fifty  years 
ago  my  father  left  me  this  cottage.  T  was  a  strong  lad, 
and  took  an  honest  wife.  Heaven  blessed  my  farm  with 
rich  crops,  and  my  marriage  with  five  children.  This  lasted 
nine  or  ten  years.  Two  of  my  children  died.  I  felt  it 
sorely.  The  land  was  afflicted  with  a  famine.  My  wife 
assisted  me  in  supporting  our  family :  but  four  years  after, 
she  left  our  dwelling  for  a  better  place.  And  of  my  five 
children  only  one  son  remained.  This  was  blow  upon  blow. 
It  was  long  before  I  regained  my  fortitude.  At  length 
resignation  and  religion  had  their  effect.  I  again  attached 
myself  to  life.  My  son  grew,  and  helped  me  in  my  work. 
Now  the  state  has  called  him  away  to  bear  a  musket.  This 
is  to  me  a  loss  indeed.  I  can  work  no  more.  I  am  old 
and  weak ;  and  true  it  is,  but  for  Mrs.  Haller,  I  must  have 
perished. 

Fra.     Still,  then,  life  has  its  charms  for  you  ? 

Tob.  Why  not,  while  the  world  holds  anything-  that's 
dear  to  me  ?     Have  not  I  a  son  ?  . 

Fra.  Who  knows  that  you  will  ever  see  him  more  ?  He 
may  be  dead. 

Tob.     Alas!  he  may.     But  as  long  as  I  am  not  sure  of 


40  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

it,  he  lives  to  rne:  and  if  he  falls,  'tis  in  his  country's  cause 
Nay,  should  I  lose  him,  still  I  should  not  wish  to  die.  Here 
IS  the  hut  in  which  I  was  born.  Here  is  the  tree  that  grew 
with  me;  and,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  confess  it — I  have 
a  dog  I  love. 

Fni.     A  dog  ! 

Tob.  Yes  ! — Smile  if  you  please ;  but  hear  me.  My 
benefactress  once  came  to  my  hut  herself,  some  time  before 
you  fixed  here.  The  poor  animal,  unused  to  see  the  form 
of  elegance  and  beauty  enter  the  door  of  penury,  growled 
at  her.  "  I  wonder  you  keep  that  surly,  ugly  animal,  Mr. 
Tobias,"  said  she  ;  "  you,  who  have  hardly  food  enough  for 
yourself" — "Ah,  Madam,"  I  replied,  '-if  I  part  with  him, 
are  you  sure  that  anything  else  will  love  me  ?"  She  was 
pleased  with  my  answer. 

Fra.  [To  Stranger.']  Excuse  me,  sir;  but  I  wish  you 
had  listened. 

Stra.     I  have  listened. 

Fra.  Then,  sir,  I  wish  you  would  follow  this  poor  old 
man's  example. 

Stra.  [^Pauses.]  Here ;  take  this  book,  and  lay  it  on 
my  desk.  [Fraitcis  goes  into  the  lodge  with  tlie  hook.] 
How  much  has  this  Mrs.  Haller  given  you  ? 

Tob.  Oh,  sir,  she  has  given  me  so  much  that  I  can  look 
towards  winter  without  fear. 

Stra.     No  more  ? 

Tob.  What  could  I  do  with  more  ? — Ah !  true ;  I 
might — 

Stra.  I  know  it. — You  might  buy  your  son's  release. — 
There!     \Presses  a  purse  into  his  Jiand  and  exit.] 

Tob.  What  is  all  this?  \_Oj)ens  tlie  purse.^  and  find^s  it 
full  of  gold.]     Merciful  Heaven! — 

Enter  Francis. 
Now  look,  sir :  is  confidence  in  Heaven  unrewarded  ? 

Fra.     I  wish  you  joy  !     My  master  gave  you  this  ! 

Tob.     Yes,  your  noble  master.     Heaven  reward  him 

Fra  Just  like  him.  He  sent  me  with  this  book,  that 
no  one  might  be  witness  to  his  bounty. 

Tob.  He  would  not  even  take  my  thanks.  He  was 
gone  before  I  could  speak. 

Fra.     Just  his  way. 

Tob.  Now,  I'll  go  as  quick  as  these  old  legs  will  bear 
Die.  What  a  delightful  errand  !  I  go  to  release  my  Rob- 
ert !     How  the  lad  will  rejoice  j     There  is  a  girl,  too,  in  the 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  41 

village,  that  will  rejoice  with  him.  0  Providence,  how 
good  art  thou  !  Years  of  distress  never  can  efface  the  recol- 
lection of  former  happiness ;  but  one  joyful  moment  drives 
from  the  memory  an  age  of  misery. 


XIV. -FROM  DOUGLASS.— ^ome. 

LORD  RANDOLPH GLENALVON NORVAL. 

Glenalvon.     His  port  I  love  :  he's  in  a  proper  mood 
To  chide  the  thunder,  if  at  him  it  roared.  ^Aside.'] 

Has  Norval  seen  the  troops  ? 

Norval.     The  setting  sun. 
With  yellow  radiance  lightened  all  the  vale. 
And  as  the  warriors  moved,  each  polished  helm, 
Corslet,  or  spear,  glanced  back  its  gilded  beams. 
The  hill  they  climbed,  and,  halting  at  its  top, 
Of  more  than  mortal  size,  towering  they  seemed 
A  host  angelic,  clad  in  burning  arms. 

*  Glen.     Thou  talkest  it  well ;  no  leader  of  our  host, 
In  sounds  more  lofty  talks  of  glorious  war. 

Norv.     If  I  should  e'er  acquire  a  leader's  name, 
My  speech  will  be  less  ardent.     Novelty 
Now  prompts  my  tongue,  and  youthful  admiration 
Vents  itself  freely,  since  no  part  is  mine 
Of  praise  pertaining  to  the  great  in  arms. 

Glen.     You  wrong  yourself  brave  sir ;  your  martial  deeds 
Have  ranked  you  with  the  great.     But,  mark  me,  Norval, 
Lord  Randolph's  favor  now  exalts  your  youth 
Above  his  veterans  of  famous  service. 
Let  me,  who  know  these  soldiers,  counsel  you. 
Grive  them  all  honor;  seem  not  to  command. 
Else  they  will  hardly  brook  your  late-sprung  power, 
Which  nor  alliance  props  nor  birth  adorns. 

Norv.     Sir,  I  have  been  accustomed  all  my  days 

To  hear  and  speak  the  plain  and  simple  truth  ; 

And  though  I  have  been  told  that  there  are  men 

Who  borrow  friendship's  tongue  to  speak  their  scorn, 

Yet  in  such  language  I  am  little  skilled  : 

Therefore  I  thank  Glenalvon  for  his  counsel, 
4* 


42  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

A-lthough  it  sounded  harshly.     Why  remind 
Me  of  my  birth  obscure  ?     Why  slur  my  power 
With  such  contemptuous  terms  ? 

Glch.     I  did  not  mean 
To  gall  your  pride,  which  now  I  see  is  grea). 

Norv.     My  pride ! 

Glen.     Suppress  it,  as  you  wish  to  prosper. 
Your  pride's  excessive.     Yet,  for  Randolph's  sake, 
I  will  not  leave  you  to  its  rash  direction. 
If  thus  you  swell,  and  frown  at  high-born  men, 
Will  high-born  men  endure  a  shepherd's  scorn  ? 

Norv.     A  shepherd's  scorn ! 

Glen.     Yes:   if  j'-ou  presume 
To  bend  on  soldiers  these  disdainful  eyes, 
As  if  you  took  the  measure  of  their  minds, 
And  said  in  secret,  you're  no  match  for  me, 
What  will  become  of  you  ? 

Norv.     If  this  were  told  ! —         [Aside.'^ 
Hast  thou  no  fears  for  thy  presumptuous  self? 

Glen.     Ha !  dost  thou  threaten  me  ? 

Norv.     Didst  thou  not  hear  ? 

Glen.     Unwillingly  I  did  ;  a  nobler  foe 
Had  not  been  questioned  thus  ;  but  such  as  thee — 

Norv.     Whom  dost  thou  think  me  ? 

Gle?i.     Norval. 

Norv.     So  I  am — 
And  who  is  Norval  in  Glenalvon's  eyes? 

Gle?t.     A  peasant's  son,  a  wandering  beggar  boy ; 
At  best  no  more,  even  if  he  speaks  the  truth. 

Norv.     False  as  thou  art,  dost  thou  suspect  my  truth  ? 

Glen.     Thy  truth  !  thou'rt  all  a  lie  ;  and  false  as  hell 
Is  the  vainglorious  tale  thou  toldest  to  Randolph. 

Norv.     If  I  were  chained,  unarmed  or  bedrid  old, 
Perhaps  I  should  revile  ;  but  as  I  am, 
I  have  no  tongue  to  rail.     The  humble  Norval 
Is  of  a  race  who  strive  not  but  with  deeds. 
Did  I  not  fear  to  freeze  thy  shallow  valor, 
And  make  thee  sink  too  soon  beneath  my  sword, 
I'd  tell  thee — what  thou  art.     I  know  thee  well 

Gle7i.     Dost  thou  not  know  Glenalvon,  born  to  command 
Ten  thousand  slaves  like  thee  ? 

Norv.     Villain,  no  more  ! 
Draw  and  defend  thy  life.     I  did  design 
To  have  defied  thee  in  another  cause  ; 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  43 

But  heaven  accelerates  its  vengeance  on  thee. 
Now  for  my  own  and  Lady  Randolph's  wrongs. 

Lord  Randolph.    [Etiters.]    Hold  !  I  command  you  both  I 
the  man  that  stirs 
Makes  me  his  foe. 

No?-v.     Another  voice  than  thine. 
That  threat  had  vainly  sounded,  noble  Randolph. 

Glen.     Hear  him,  my  lord  ;  he's  wondrous  condescending ! 
Mark  the  humility  of  Shepherd  Norval  ! 

JYorv.     Now  you  may  scoff  in  safety.  {Sheathes  his  sward.) 

Lord  Ran.     Speak  not  thus. 
Taunting  each  other,  but  unfold  to  me 
The  cause  of  quarrel  ;  then  I  judge  betwixt  you. 

No7-v.     Nay,  my  good  lord,  though  I  revere  you  much, 
My  cause  I  plead  not,  nor  demand  your  judgment 
I  blush  to  ^peak ;  I  will  not,  can  not  speak 
The  opprobrious  words  that  1  from  him  have  borne. 
To  the  liege  lord  of  my  dear  native  land 
I  owe  a  subject's  homage  ;  but  even  him    . 
And  his  high  arbitration  I'd  reject. 
Within  my  bosom  reigns  another  lord ; 
Honor,  sole  judge  and  umpire  of  itself 
If  my  free  speech  offend  you,  noble  Randolph, 
Revoke  your  favors,  and  let  Norval  go 
Hence  as  he  came,  but  not  dishonored ! 

Lo?-d  Ran.     Thus  far  I'll  mediate  with  impartial  voice  ; 
The  ancient  foe  of  Caledonia's  land 
Now  waves  his  banner  o'er  her  frighted  fields  ; 
Suspend  your  purpose  till  your  country's  arms 
Repel  the  bold  invader ;  then  decide 
The  private  quarrel. 

Glen.     1  agree  to  this. 

Norv.     And  I.     [Exit  Randolph.] 

Glen.     Norval, 
Let  not  our  variance  mar  the  social  hour, 
Nor  wrong  the  hospitality  of  Randolph. 
Nor  frowning  anger,  nor  yet  wrinkled  hate, 
Shall  stain  my  countenance.     Smooth  thou  thy  brow; 
Nor  let  our  strife  disturb  the  gentle  dame. 

Norv.     Think  not  so  lightly,  sir,  of  my  resentment; 
When  we  contend  again,  our  strife  is  mortal. 


44  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

XV.— FROM  CORIOL ANU  S.—SUakspeare. 

CORIOLANUS AUFIDIUS. 

Cmiolanus.     I  plainly,  Tullus,  by  your  looks  perceive 
You  disapprove  my  conduct. 

Aujidius.     I  mean  not  to  assail  thee  with  the  clamor 
Of  loud  reproaches  and  the  war  of  words  ; 
But,  pride  apart,  and  all  that  can  pervert 
The  light  of  steady  reason,  here  to  make 
A  candid,  fair  proposal. 

Cor.     Speak,  I  hear  thee. 

Atif.     I  need  not  tell  thee,  that  I  have  performed 
My  utmost  promise.     Thou  hast  been  protected  ; 
Hast  had  thy  amplest,  most  ambitious  wish  ; 
Th}^  wounded  pride  is  healed,  thy  dear  revenge 
Completely  sated  ;  and  to  crown  thy  fortune. 
At  the  same  time,  thy  peace  with  Rome  restored. 
Thou  art  no  more  a  Yolscian,  but  a  Roman ; 
Return,  return  ;  thy  duty  calls  upon  thee 
Still  to  protect  the  city  thou  hast  saved ; 
It  still  may  be  in  danger  from  our  arms  ; 
Retire :  T  will  take  care  thou  mayest  with  safety. 

Cor.     With  safety  ? — Heavens  ! — and  thinkest  thou  Cori- 
olanus 
Will  stoop  to  thee  for  safety  ? — No :  my  safeguard 
Is  in  myself,  a  bosom  void  of  fear. — 
0,  'tis  an  act  of  cowardice  and  baseness, 
To  seize  the  very  time  my  hands  are  fettered 
]^y  the  strong  chain  of  former  obligation, 
The  safe,  sure  moment,  to  insult  me. — Gods! 
Were  I  now  free,  as  on  that  day  I  was 
When  at  Corioli  I  tamed  thy  pride. 
This  had  not  been. 

Auf.     Thou  speakest  the  truth  :  it  had  not. 
O,  for  that  time  again  !     Propitious  gods. 
If  you  will  bless  me,  grant  it !     Now  for  that, 
For  that  dear  purpose,  I  have  now  proposed 
Thou  shouldst  return  ;   I  pray  thee.  Marcius.  do  it  ; 
A.nd  we  shall  meet  again  on  nobler  terms. 

Cor.     Till  I  have  cleared  my  honor  in  your  council, 
And  proved  before  them  all,  to  thy  confusion, 


seriot:s  and  sentimental.  46 

The  falsehood  of  thy  charge ;  as  soon  in  battle 
I  would  before  thee  fly,  and  howl  for  mercy, 
As  quit  the  station  they've  assigned  me  here. 

Auf.     Thou  canst  not  hope  acquittal  from  the  Volscians. 

Cor.     I  do :  Nay,  more,  expect  their  approbation. 
Their  thanks.     I  will  obtain  them  such  a  peace 
As  thou  durst  never  ask ;  a  perfect  union 
Of  their  whole  nation  with  imperial  Rome, 
In  all  her  privileges,  all  her  rights  ; 
By  the  just  gods,  I  will. — What  wouldst  thou  more  ? 

Auf.     What  would  I  more,  proud  Roman  ?  This  I  would — 
Fire  the  cursed  forest,  where  these  Roman  wolves 
Haunt  and  infest  their  nobler  neighbors  round  them ; 
Extirpate  from  the  bosom  of  this  land 
A  false,  perfidious  people,  who,  beneath 
The  mask  of  freedom,  are  a  combination 
Against  the  liberty  of  human  kind  ; — 
The  genuine  seed  of  outlaws  and  of  robbers. 

Cor.     The  seed  of  gods. — 'Tis  not  for  thee,  vain  boaster,— 
'Tis  not  for  such  as  thou, — so  often  spared 
By  her  victorious  sword,  to  speak  of  Rome, 
But  with  respect,  and  awful  veneration. — 
Whate'er  her  blots,  whate'er  her  giddy  factions. 
There  is  more  virtue  in  one  single  year 
Of  Roman  story,  than  your  Volscian  annals 
Can  boast  through  all  their  creeping,  dark  duration. 

Auf.     I  thank  thy  rage  :--This  full  displays  the  traitor. 

Cor.     Traitor  ! — How  now  % 

Auf.     Ay,  traitor,  Marcius. 

Cor.     Marcius ! 

Auf.     Ay,  Marcius,  Caius  Marcius  :  Dost  thou  think 
I'll  grace  thee  with  that  robbery,  thy  stolen  name, 
Coriolanus,  in  Corioli  ? 

You  lords,  and  heads  of  the  state,  perfidiously 
He  has  betrayed  your  business,  and  given  up, 
For  certain  drops  of  salt,  your  city  Rome. — 
1  say,  your  city, — to  his  wife  and  mothei ; 
Breaking  his  oath  and  resolution  like 
A  twist  of  rotten  silk;  never  admitting 
Counsel  of  the  war :  but  at  his  nurse's  tears 
He  whined  and  roared  away  your  victory ; 
That  pages  blushed  at  him,  and  men  of  heart 
Looked  wondering  at  each  other. 

Cor      Hearest  thou.  Mars  ! 


46  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Auf.     Name  not  the  god,  thou  boy  of  tears. 

Oor.     Measureless  liar,  thou  hast  made  my  heart 
T«  0  great  for  what  contains  it. — Boy  ! — 
Cut  me  to  pieces,  Volscians,  men  and  lads, 
Stain  all  your  edges  on  me. — Boy  I 
If  you  have  writ  your  annals  true,  'tis  there, 
That  like  an  eagle  in  a  dovecot,  I 
Fluttered  your  Volscians  in  Corioli ; 
Alone  I  iid  it : — Boy !— But  let  us  part ; 
Lest  my  rash  hand  should  do  a  hasty  deed 
My  cooler  thought  forbids. 

Auf,     I  court 
The  worst  thy  sword  can  do ;  wnile  thou  from  mc 
Hast  nothing  to  expect  but  sore  destruction ; 
Quit  then  this  hostile  camp :  once  more  I  tell  thee. 
Thou  art  not  here  one  single  hour  in  safety. 

Cor.     0,  that  I  had  thee  in  the  field, 
With  six  Aufidiuses,  or  more — thy  tribe, 
To  use  my  lawful  sword  ! — 


XVI.— FROM  THE  MUTINY  AT  THE  NORE.— /erro^d 

PARKER MARY—CHILD. 

Scene. — Room  in  a  cottage. 

Mary.  He  comes — at  every  succeeding  interview  I  fancy 
I  perceive  a  deeper  gloom  upon  his  brow ;  a  more  settled 
sorrow  at  his  heart.  Let  me  not  complain,  a  brighter  day 
may  yet  arrive.     (Enter  Parker.) 

Parker.     Mary  !  my  own  loved  Mary  ! 

Mary.  Oh,  Kichard,  this  meeting  repays  me  for  all  the 
anxious  hours  passed  in  silence  and  in  solitude. — Why,  why 
is  this  ?     Why  do  you  turn  your  eyes  from  mine  ? 

Par.     I — I  cannot  look  upon  you. 

Mary.     Not ! 

Par.  When  I  remember  that  you  were  nursed  by  fortune, 
and  every  comfort  strewed  about  your  footsteps— were  the 
idol  of  your  household — sought  by  wealth  and  rank — when 
I  remember  this,  and  see  you  torn  by  my  hands  from  every 
hope  of  life, — thrown  a  poor  outcast  upon  the  unfeeling 
world,  humiliated,  broken-hearted,  beggared — can  you  won- 
der if  I  blush  to  meet  your  eye  ?  can  you  marvel  if,  like  a 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  47 

felon,  I  shrink  beneath  your  gaze,  ashamed  to  meet  the 
victim  I  have  made  ? 

Mary.  Oh.  Richard  !  talk  not  so :  do  you  think  reproach 
can  spring  from  love  like  mine  ? — think  you  I  regret  the 
loss  of  wealth  and  those  summer  friends  that  clung  while 
fortune  shone  ? — oh,  no  !  I  am  rich,  rich  in  your  love,  and  in 
our  darling  boy. 

Par.     Sly  poor  child — my  William. 

Mary.  Oh !  away  with  such  reproaches — you  have  manly 
courage,  Richard  ;  add  to  it  a  w^oman's  strength. 

Par.     A  woman's  strength  ! 

Mary.  Ay,  the  power  of  sufferance :  you  in  the  wild 
storm,  or  wilder  battle,  hang  over  the  heaving  billow  or  rush 
upon  the  sword — this — this  is  lion-hearted  daring  ;  but  think 
you  a  sailor's  wife  has  not  a  deeper  courage,  to  listen  to  the 
roaring  sea,  to  hear  the  minute  gun,  to  read  of  battle  and  of 
shipwreck,  yet  with  terror  for  her  daring  partner,  to  hush  the 
whispering  fear,  and  with  a  deep  tranquillity  of  soul,  confide 
in  Him  who  feeds  the  sparrow,  and  sustains  the  flower ! — 
Mere  courage  is  the  attribute  of  beasts ;  patience,  the  sweet 
child  of  reason  !  stamps  and  dignifies  the  soul  of  man  ! 

Par.     My  dear  Mary  !  yes,  thou  wilt  love  me  still. 

Mary.  Love  you !  though  all  the  world  conspired  against 
you — though  poverty  and  wounds  had  made  you  unjust  to 
me,  forgetful  of  yourself — though  shame  had  scourged  you. — 
(He  turns  Ids  head.) — How  now,  Richard !  husband  ! 

Par.     'Tis  nothing. 

Mary.  Nay,  your  color  goes — the  veins  swell  within 
your  brow,  and  your  lip  works  ; — what,  what  have  I  said  1 

Par.     Nothing,  nothing,  my  poor  wench. 

Mary.  Oh,  it  is  not  so !  I  have  awakened  some  horrid 
thoughts  that  still  shake  and  convulse  you — tell  me,  in 
mercy ! 

Par.  Mary,  I  will — tell — you :  you  spoke  of  shame  to  a 
heart  rightly  endowed  with  feeling  for  its  fellows  !  It  is  a 
kind  of  shame  to  see  in  silence  wrong  and  outrage  done  to 
others. 

Mary      True;  but— 

Par.  I — I  am  a  sailor  aboard  a  king's  ship  ;  my  mind 
may  be  as  noble,  my  heart  as  stout  as  are  the  minds  and 
hearts  of  those  who  strut  upon  the  quarter  deck,  and  are  my 
jnasters. — No  matter,  'tis  my  fate  that  I  obey  them. 

Mary.  For  heaven's  sake,  let  not  the  violence  of  your 
temper  betray  you  to  acts  of  mutiny — have  you  not  seen — 


48  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Par.  Seen ! — I  have  served  the  king-  seven  years  :  in 
that  time  I  have  seen  enough  to  turn  the  softest  hearts  to 
stone — to  make  me  look  with  eyes  of  lead  upon  the  blackest 
violence — to  make  me  laugh  at  virtue  and  feeling  as  words 
of  a  long  forgotten  tongue.  Seen  ! — I  have  seen  old  men, 
husbands  and  fathers,  men  with  venerable  gray  hairs,  tied 
up,  exposed,  and  treated  like  basest  beasts — scourged,  whilst 
every  stroke  of  the  blood-bringing  cat  may  have  cut  open  a 
scar  received  in  honorable  fight !  I  have  seen  this  !  And 
what  was  the  culprit's  fault  ?  He  may  have  trod  too  much 
on  this  or  that  side  the  deck ;  have  answered  in  a  tone  too 
high  or  too  low.  his  beardless  persecutor — no  matter,  the 
crime  is  mutinous,  and  the  mariner  must  bleed  for  it. 

Mary  Oh,  Richard,  and  have  you  looked  on  scenes  like 
these  ? 

Far.  Looked  on  them ! — looked  !  Listen,  then  judge 
whether  the  gloom  upon  my  face  is  but  the  cast  of  a  sickly- 
fancy  ! — It  tears  my  soul  to  shock  thy  delicate  spirit,  yet 
thou  must  know — that  henceforth,  in  what  I  may  do  thy 
mind  may  justify  me — dost  hear  me,  Mary  1 

Mary.     I'll  strive  to  do  so. 

Par.  'Tis  now  some  four  years  since  I  had  a  friend,  a 
sailor  on  board  a  king's  ship  ;  his  fate  was  something  like  to 
mine,  for  chance  had  given  him  an  unsuccessful  rival  in  love, 
to  be  his  captain  and  his  destroyer.  I  knew  the  victim — 
knew  him  ! — But  to  the  tale :  the  sailor  was  preferred,  rare 
promotion  to  one  of  cultivated  mind,  to  wait  upon  the  stew- 
ard and  do  his  lofty  bidding.  Time  w^ore  on — at  length  a 
watch  was  stolen  ;  suspicion  lighted  on  my  friend — he  was 
charged — my  heart  swells  and  my  head  swims  round — with 
the  robbery  !  Before  the  assembled  crew,  despite  his  protes- 
tations and  his  honest  scorn,  he  was  branded  with  the  name 
of — thief 

Mary.     Oh,  heavens ! 

Par.  Stript,  and  bound  for  brutal  punishment — picture 
the  horror,  the  agony  of  my  friend,  bleeding  beneath  the 
gloating  eye  of  his  late  rival  in  a  woman's  love — picture  his 
torment  apd  despair,  to  feel  while  the  stripes  fell  like  molten 
lead  upon  his  back,  that  keener  anguish,  his  rival's  triumph — • 
imagine  what,  what  were  his  thoughts,  what  the  yearnings 
of  his  swelling  bosom  towards  his  young  wife  and  precious 
babe  at  home. 

Mary.     Oh,  horrible  ! 

Par.  A  short  time  after,  he  thought  to  escape  ;  he  trusted 
the  secret  of  his  flight  to  another,  and  was  betrayed — what 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  49 

followed  then  ?  he  was  tried  for  desertion,  condemned  to 
death  !— 

Mary.     Gracious  powers  ! — and  did  they — 

Par.     Oh  !  no,  the  judges  were  merciful — 

Mary.     Heaven  bless  them — 

Par.  Stay  your  benediction — they  were  merciful !  they 
did  not  hang-  the  man — 'twould  have  been  harsh  they  thought 
— the  more  so,  as  he  who  had  stole  the  watch,  touched  by 
compunction,  had  confessed  the  theft,  clearing  the  deserter 
of  the  crime  he  had  been  scourged  for.  Still  discipline  de- 
manded punishment.  They  did  not  hang  the  man — and 
thereby  bury  in  the  grave  the  remembrance  of  his  shame — 
no — they  mercifully  sent  him  through  the  fleet. 

Mary.     The  fleet ! 

Par.  Listen,  then  wonder  that  men  with  hearts  of  throb- 
bing flesh  within  them  can  look  upon,  much  less  inflict  such 
tortures — they  sentenced  him  to  five  hundred  lashes,  so 
many  at  the  side  of  each  vessel,  whilst  the  thronging  crew 
sat  upon  the  yards  and  rigging,  to  hear  the  wretch's  cries 
and  look  upon  his  opening  wounds.  What  was  the  result  ? — 
why  he  whom  they  had  tied  up.  a  sufiering.  persecuted  man, 
they  loosed,  a  raging  tiger  !  From  that  moment  revenge 
look  possession  of  his  soul — he  lived  and  breathed — consented 
to  look  on  the  day's  blessed  light  only  that  he  might  have 
revenge. — 'Twas  I! 


Mary.      You,  husband  '  you  ! 

Par.     Yes,  Mary  Parker,  I — I  am  that  wronged,  that 
striped,  heart-broken   degraded  man. 
C 


50  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Mary.  Oh  !  Eichard  ! — Heaven,  heaven  have  mercy  on 
them. 

Par.  Amen  !  mercy  is  heaven's  attribute — revenge  is 
man's.  Ay,  look  upon  me,  Mary  ;  do  you  not  blush  to  call 
me  husband  ? 

Mary.     Oh  !  talk  not  so. 

Par.  You  must,  for  I  feel  degraded — a  thing  of  scorn 
and  restless  desperation ;  but  the  time  is  ripe,  and  ven- 
geance— 

Mary.     Oh  !  think  not  of  it. 

Far.  Think  not  of  it!  I  only  live  upon  the  hope  of 
coming  retribution  ;  think  not  of  it — would  you  still  embrace 
a  striped,  a  brjnded  felon? 

Mary.     That  stain  is  wiped  away. 

Far.     No — but  it  shall  be,  and  in  blood. 

Mary.     In  mercy,  Richard. 

Far.     Hear  me  swear.     \Kneds^ 

\Flnter  the  child.,  who  runs  between  father  and  viother.'] 

Child.     Dear,  dear  father  ! 

Far.  Ha !  be  this  the  subject  of  my  oath. — [^Futs  his 
hand  upon  the  child's  head.'] — May  this  sweet  child,  the 
fountain  of  my  hopes,  become  my  bitterest  source  of  misery 
— may  all  my  joy  in  him  be  turned  to  mourning  and  dis- 
quiet— may  he  be  a  reed  to  my  old  age — a  laughter  and  a 
jest  to  my  gray  hairs — may  he  mock  my  dying  agonies  and 
spit  upon  my  grave,  if  for  a  day.  an  hour,  I  seek  not  a  most 
deep  and  bloody  vengeance. — [  Voice  of  Jack  Adams,  heard 
without. — Aboard  the  house,  ahoy  !] — A  stranger's  voice, 
we  are  disturbed — farewell,  my  love,  I  must  aboard  ;  to- 
morrow you  shall  hear  news  of  me.  I  have  promised  my 
shipmates  to  bring  William  with  me ;  he  shall  return  when 
I  do. 

Mary.  Promise  then  to  be  more  calm,  and  let  patience. 
Richard,  patience  counsel  you.     l^Exit.] 

Par.  Farewell — now  my  child  shall  see  his  father's 
wronger  at  his  feet.  Arlmgton,  I  come  to  triumph.  \^Exit 
with  child.'] 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  51 


XVII.— FROM  JULIUS  C^SAR. 

BRUTUS CASSIUS. 

Street  Scene. 

Cassius.     Will  you  go  see  the  order  of  the  course  ? 

Brutus.     Not  I. 

Cas.     I  pray  you,  do. 

Bru.     I  am  not  gamesome ;  I  do  lack  some  part 
Of  that  quick  spirit  that  is  in  Antony  ; 
Let  me  not  hinder,  Cassius,  your  desires ; 
I'll  leave  you. 

Gas.     Brutus,  I  do  observe  you  now  of  late  ; 
I  have  not  from  your  eyes  that  gentleness 
And  show  of  love  as  I  was  wont  to  have  ; 
You  bear  too  stubborn  and  too  strange  a  hand 
Over  your  friend  that  loves  you. 

Bru.     Cassius, 
Be  not  deceived  :  If  I  have  veiled  my  look, 
J  turn  the  trouble  of  my  countenance 
Merely  upon  myself     Vexed  I  am 
Of  late  with  passions  of  some  difference, 
Conceptions  only  proper  to  myself, 
Which  give  some  soil  perhaps  to  my  behavior ; 
But  let  not  therefore  my  good  friends  be  grieved ; 
Among  which  number,  Cassius,  be  you  one ; 
Nor  construe  any  farther  my  neglect. 
Than  that  poor  Brutus,  with  himself  at  war. 
Forgets  the  shows  of  love  to  other  men. 

Cas.     Then,  Brutus,  I  have  much  mistook  your  passion  ; 
By  means  whereof,  this  breast  of  mine  hath  buried 
Thoughts  of  great  value,  worthy  cogitations. 
Tell  me,  good  Brutus,  can  you  see  your  face  ? 

Bru.     No,  Cassius,  for  the  eye  sees  not  itselt 
But  by  reflection  from  some  other  thing. 

Cas.     'T is  just. 
And  it  is  very  much  lamented,  Brutus, 
That  you  have  no  such  mirror  as  will  turn 
Your  hidden  worthiness  into  your* eye, 
That  you  might  see  your  shadow.     I  have  heard, 
Where  many  of  the  best  respect  in  Rome, 


52  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

(Except  immortal  Caesar,)  speaking  of  Brutus, 
And  groaning  underneath  this  age's  yoke, 
Have  wished  that  noble  Brutus  had  his  eyes. 

Bru.     Into  what  dangers  would  you  lead  me,  Cassius, 
That  you  would  have  me  seek  into  myself 
For  that  which  is  not  in  me  ? 

Cas.     Therefore,  good  Brutus,  be  prepared  to  hear ; 
And  since  you  know  you  cannot  see  yourself 
So  well  as  by  reflection,  I,  your  glass, 
Will  modestly  discover  to  yourself 
That  of  yourself  which  yet  you  know  not  of. 
And  be  not  jealous  of  me,  gentle  Brutus  ; 
Were  I  a  common  laugher,  or  did  use 
To  stale  with  ordinary  oaths  my  love 
To  every  new  protecter ;  if  you  know. 
That  I  do  fawn  on  men,  and  hug  them  hard, 
And  after  scandal  them  ;  or,  if  you  know. 
That  I  profess  myself  in  banqueting 
To  all  the  rout ;  then  hold  me  dangerous. 

Bru.     What  means  this  shouting?     I  do  fear  the  people 
Choose  Caesar  for  their  king. 

Cas.     Ay,  do  you  fear  it  ? 
Then  must  I  think  you  would  not  have  it  so. 

Bru.     I  would  not,  Cassius ;  yet  I  love  him  well. 
But  wherefore  do  you  hold  me  here  so  long  ? 
What  is  it  that  you  would  impart  to  me  1 
If  it  be  aught  toward  the  general  good. 
Set  Honor  in  one  eye,  and  Death  in  the  other ; 
And  I  will  look  on  death  indifferently  : 
For  let  the  gods  so  speed  me,  as  I  love 
The  name  of  Honor  more  than  I  fear  death. 

Cas.     I  know  that  virtue  to  be  in  you,  Brutus, 
As  well  as  I  do  know  your  outward  favor. 
Well,  honor  is  the  subject  of  my  story. — 
I  cannot  tell  what  you  and  other  men 
Think  of  this  life  :  but  for  my  single  self, 
I  had  as  lief  not  be,  as  live  to  be 
In  awe  of  such  a  thing  as  I  myself 
I  was  born  free  as  Caesar ;  so  were  you  ; 
We  both  have  fed  as  well ;  and  we  can  both 
Endure  the  winter's  cold  as  well  as  he. 
For  once  upon  a  raw  and  ^usty  day. 
The  troubled  Tiber  chafing  with  his  shores, 
Caesar  said  to  me,  Darest  thou,  Cassius,  now" 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  53 

Leap  in  with  me  into  this  angry  flood, 

And  swim  to  yonder  point  ? — Upon  the  word. 

Accoutered  as  I  was,  I  plunged  in, 

And  bade  him  follow  ;  so  indeed  he  did. 

The  torrent  roared,  and  we  did  buffet  it 

With  lusty  sinews  ;  throwing  it  aside, 

And  stemming  it  with  hearts  of  controversy. 

But,  ere  we  could  arrive  the  point  proposed, 

Caesar  cried.  Help  me,  Cassius,  or  I  sink. 

Then,  as  j$]neas.  our  great  ancestor. 

Did  from  the  flames  of  Troy  upon  his  shoulder 

The  old  Anchises  bear ;  so  from  the  waves  of  Tiber 

Did  I  the  tired  Caasar :  and  this  man 

Is  now  become  a  god  ;  and  Cassius  is 

A  wretched  creature,  and  must  bend  his  body, 

If  Caesar  carelessly  but  nod  on  him. 

He  had  a  fever  when  he  was  in  Spain, 

And  when  the  fit  was  on  him,  I  did  mark 

How  he  did  shake.     'Tis  true,  this  god  did  shake ; 

His  coward  lips  did  from  their  color  fly. 

And  that  same  eye  whose  bend  doth  awe  the  world, 

Did  lose  its  luster  ;  I  did  hear  him  groan : 

Ay,  and  that  tongue  of  his,  that  bade  the  Komans 

Mark  him,  and  write  his  speeches  in  their  books, 

Alas  !  it  cried — Give  me  some  drink,  Tilinius — 

As  a  sick  girl.     Ye  gods,  it  doth  amaze  me, 

A  man  of  such  a  feeble  temper  should 

So  get  the  start  of  the  majestic  world, 

And  bear  the  palm  alone. 

Btu.     Another  general  shout ! 
I  do  believe,  that  these  applauses  are 
For  some  new  honors  that  are  heaped  on  Caesar. 

Cas.     Why,  man,  he  doth  bestride  the  narrow  world 
Like  a  Colossus ;  and  we  petty  men 
Walk  under  his  huge  legs,  and  peep  about 
To  find  ourselves  dishonorable  graves. 
Men  at  some  time  are  masters  of  their  fate : 
The  fault,  dear  Brutus,  is  not  in  our  stars, 
But  in  ourselves,  that  we  are  underlings. 
Brutus — and  Ceesar  -  what  should  be  in  that  Caesar  ? 
Why  should  that  name  be  sounded,  more  than  yours? 
Write  them  together ;  yours  is  as  fair  a  name  : 
Sound  them,  it  doth  become  the  mouth  as  well ; 
Weigh  them,  it  is  as  heavy  ;  conjure  with  them, 


oi  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Brutus  will  start  a  spirit  as  soon  as  Caesar. 

Now,  in  the  names  of  all  the  gods  at  once, 

Upon  what  meats  doth  this  our  Caesar  feed, 

That  he  has  grown  so  great  ?     Age,  thou  art  shamed  ; 

Rome,  thou  hast  lost  the  breed  of  noble  bloods. 

When  could  they  say,  till  now,  that  talked  of  "Rome, 

That  her  wide  walls  encompassed  but  one  man? 

Oh !  you  and  I  have  heard  our  fathers  say, 

There  was  a  Brutus  once  that  would  have  brooked 

A  whip-galled  slave  to  keep  his  state  in  Rome 

As  easily  as  a  king. 

Bru.     That  you  do  love  me,  I  am  nothing  jealous : 
What  you  would  work  me  to,  I  have  some  aim : 
How  I  have  thought  of  this,  and  of  these  times, 
I  shall  recount  hereafter :  for  this  present, 
I  would  not  (so  with  love  I  might  entreat  you) 
Be  any  further  moved.     What  you  have  said, 
I  will  consider ;  what  you  have  to  say, 
I  will  with  patience  hear ;  and  find  a  time 
Both  meet  to  hear,  and  answer  such  high  things. 
'Till  then,  my  noble  friend,  chew  upon  this  : 
Brutus  had  rather  be  a  villager. 
Than  to  repute  himself  a  son  of  Rome, 
Under  such  hard  conditions  as  this  time 
Is  like  to  lay  upon  us. 


XVIIL— SEARCH  FOR  OCTAVIAK— 6Wwian. 

OCTAVIAN ROQUE. 

Octavian.     [Pulls  a  portrait  frotn  his  boso7n.~\ 
Out,  bauble  ! — let  me  kiss  thee  !     Sweet  Floranthe, 
When  the  cold  limner  drew  thy  semblance  here, 
How  charm'd  I  sat,  to  mark  the  modest  flush 
That  virgin  nature  threw  into  thy  face. 
As  the  dull  clod,  unmoved,  did  stare  upon  thee, 
To  pencil  out  thy  features'  character ! 
Those  times  are  past,  Floranthe ! — Yet  'tis  comfort 
To  bring  remembrance  full  upon  the  eye  ! — 
'Tis  soothing  to  a  fond  and  care  worn  heart. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAU  65 

To  drop  a  tear  on  the  loved  lineaments 
Of  her  it  ne'er  must  hope  to  meet  again  ! 

Roque.  [Enters]  Now  know  not  I  how  to  accost  him. 
Poor  gentleman  !  times  are  sadly  changed  with  him  since 
I  saw  him  fresh,  and  well  caparisoned,  gazing  on  my  young, 
lady,  in  my  old  master's  mansion,  at  Seville.  I  do  not 
altogether  think  my  heart  is  tough  enough  for  my  trade ; — 
it  has  too  many  soft  places  in  it,  and  the  misfortunes  of 
another  are  apt  to  take  the  advantage  of  them ;  and  disable 
me  from  fighting  through  the  rough  work  of  the  world  with 
firmness. — Signior !  do  you  not  remember  my  countenance  ? 

Oct.     No  —Providence  has  slubber'd  it  in  haste. 
'Tis  one  of  her  unmeaning  compositions 
She  manufactures  when  she  makes  a  gross. 
She'll  form  a  million  such — and  all  alike — 
Then  send  them  forth,  ashamed  of  her  own  work, 
And  set  no  mark  upon  them.     Get  thee  gone. 

Roqiie.  Get  me  gone  ! — Ah,  Signior  !  the  time  has  been 
when  you  would  question  old  Roque  kindly  after  his  health 
as  he  lifted  up  the  latch  to  give  you  admittance  to  poor 
Donna  Floranthe. 

Oct.     Thou  hast  shot  lightning  through  mc !     Art  thou— 
stay ! 
That  sound  was  thrilling  music  !     0,  Florajithe  ! 
I  thought  not  e'en  the  magic  of  thy  name 
Could  make  a  heart,  so  long  benumb'd  with  misery, 
Leap  as  'twould  burst  its  prison. — Do  not  mock  me  ; 
If  thou  dost  juggle  now,  I'll  tear  thee  —Hold  ! 
Ay  ;  I  remember ;  and  as  t  peruse  thee, 
Past  times  rush  in  upon  me,  with  thy  face ; 
And  many  a  thought  of  happiness,  gone  by, 
Does  flash  across  my  brain.     Let  me  not  wander; 
Give  me  thy  hand,  Roque. — I  do  know  thy  errand : 
And  'tis  of  import,  when  thou  journey'st  thus 
The  trackless  desert  to  seek  sorrow  out. 
Thou  com'st  to  tell  me  my  Floranthe's  dead : — 
But  we  will  meet  again,  sweet  ! — I  will  back 
With  thee,  old  Honesty  ;  and  lay  me  down, 
Heart-broke,  at  last,  beside  her  shrouded  corse, 
Kiss  her  cold  cheek,  then  fly  to  her  in  heaven  ! 

Roque.  I  would  I  were  in  the  midst  of  a  battle : — 1 
know  not  how  'tis — I  have  faced  many  a  man  in  the  field, 
but  this  is  an  engagement  that  makes  my  spirits  sink  down 


56  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

to  my  very  heels.     I  do  verily  believe  my  courage,  in  my 
old  age^  begins  to  dwindle. 

Oct.     Tell  me,  old  Koque  !  tell  me,  Floranthe's  follower! 
Shall  we  not,  when  the  midnight  bell  has  toll'd, 
Beguile  the  drunken  sacrist  of  his  key, 
Then  steal  in  silence  up  the  church's  aisle, 
To  sprinkle  cypress  on  her  monument  ? 

Roque.  And  this — hold,  I  shall  blubber  outright,  like  a 
female  baby.  I  must  muster  my  own  resolution  that  I  may 
rally  his. — Why,  how  now,  Signior,  shame  on  this  weak- 
ness ! — were  all  to  bend  like  you  when  they  meet  disappoint- 
ment, I  know  not  who  in  this  jostling  world  would  walk 
upright.  Pluck  up  your  manly  spirits,  Signior !  your 
Floranthe  lives !  ay,  and  is  true  to  you — now,  by  Saint 
Dominick,  I  bring  tidings  that  will  glad  you. 

Oct.     I  pray  you,  do  not  sport  with  me,  old  man — 
Jeer  not  the  wretched — I  have  worn  away 
Twelve  weary  months  in  anguish  ;  I  have  sat. 
Darkling,  by  day  in  caverns — and  at  night 
Have  fix'd  my  eyes  so  long  upon  the  moon. 
That  I  do  fear  my  senses  are,  in  part, 
Sway'd  by  her  influence.     I'm  past  jesting  with. 

Roque.  I  never,  Signior,  was  much  given  to  jesting — 
and  he  who  spojrts  with  the  misfortunes  of  another,  though 
he  may  bring  his  head  into  repute  for  fancy,  does  his  heart 
little  credit  for  feeling.  I  had  rather  be  accounted  a  well- 
disposed  dullard  than  an  excellent  witted  knave.  Rest 
quiet,  Signior ! — Here  is  one  waiting  without,  that  I  have 
brought  along  with  me,  who  will  comfort  you.  Nay,  I 
pray  you  now  be  patient.  If  this  be  the  work  of  bringing 
lovers  together.  Heaven  give  him  joy  who  makes  a  trade 
on't !  for  in  fifty  years  that  Time  has  c'.app'd  his  saddle  on 
my  back,  he  never  so  sorely  galled  my  old  withers  as 
now.  lExit.^ 

Oct.     Habit  does  much — I  do  begin  to  think. 
Since  grief  has  been  so  close  an  inmate  with  me, 
That  I  have  sti'ain'd  her  nearer  to  my  bosom 
Than  I  had  press'd  her,  had  the  chequer'd  scene, 
Which  rouses  man,  who  mixes  with  his  kind, 
Kept  me  from  dotage  on  her.     Our  afl^ections 
Must  have  a  rest — and  sorrow,  when  secluded, 
Grrows  strong  in  weakness.     Pen  the  body  up 
In  solitary  durance,  and  in  time, 
The  human  soul  will  idly  fix  its  fancy, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL. 


E'en  on  some  peg,  stuck  in  the  prison's  wall. 
And  sigh  to  quit  it.     Sure  I  am  not  mad  ! — 
Floranthe's  lost — and  since  my  stubborn  frame 
Will  stand  the  tug — I'll  to  the  heated  world — 
Fit  mingler  in  the  throng,  miscail'd  Society. 


XIX.— FROM  TAMERLANE.— iJowe. 

OMAR TAMERLANE. 

Omar.     [Boimng.'\     Honor  and  fame 
Forever  wait  the  Emperor  ;  may  our  prophet 
Give  him  ten  thousand  thousand  days  of  life. 
And  every  day  like  this.     The  captive  sultan, 
Fierce  in  his  bonds,  and  at  his  fate  repining, 
Attends  your  sacred  will. 

Tamerlane.     Let  him  approach. 
[Enter  Bajazet  and  other  Turkish  prisoners  in  chains^  with 
When  I  survey  the  ruins  of  this  field,  a  guard.] 

The  wild  destruction  which  thy  fierce  ambition 
Has  dealt  among  mankind  :   (so  many  widows 
And  helpless  orphans  has  thy  battle  made, 
That  half  our  eastern  world  this  day  are  mourners :) 
Well  may  I,  in  behalf  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Demand  from  thee  atonement  for  this  wrong. 

Baj.     Make  thy  demand  of  those  that  own  thy  power. 
Know  I  am  still  beyond  it ;  and  though  fortune 
Has  stripped  me  of  the  train  and  pomp  of  greatness, 
That  outside  of  a  king,  yet  still  my  soul, 
Fixed  high,  and  on  itself  alone  dependent, 
[s  ever  free  and  royal  ;  and  even  now, 
As  at  the  head  of  battle,  does  defy  thee. 
I  know  what  power  the  chance  of  war  has  given, 
And  dare  thee  to  the  useon't.     This  vile  speeching, 
This  after  game  of  words,  is  what  most  irks  me  ; 
Spare  that,  and  for  the  rest  'tis  equal  all. 
Be  it  as  it  may. 

Tarn.     Well  was  it  for  the  world, 
When,  on  their  borders,  neighboring  princes  met, 
Frequent  in  friendly  parle.  by  cool  debates 


58  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Preventing  wasteful  war :  such  should  our  meeting 

Have  been,  hadst  thou  but  held  in  just  regard 

The  sanctity  of  leagues  so  often  sworn  to. 

Canst  thou  believe  thy  prophet,  or  what's  more, 

That  Power  Supreme,  which  made  thee  and  thy  prophet, 

Will  with  impunity  let  pass  that  breach 

Of  sacred  faith  given  to  the  royal  Greek  ? 

Baj.     Thou  pedant  talker  !  ha !  art  thou  a  king 
Possessed  of  sacred  power,  Heaven's  darling  attribute, 
And  dost  thou  prate  of  leagues,  and  oaths,  and  prophets  1 
I  hate  the  Greek,  (perdition  on  his  name  !) 
As  I  do  thee,  and  would  have  met  you  both, 
As  death  does  human  nature,  for  destruction. 

TaTTi.     Causeless  to  hate,  is  not  of  human  kind  : 
The  savage  brute  that  haunts  in  woods  remote, 
And  desert  wilds,  tears  not  the  fearful  traveler, 
If  hunger,  or  some  injury,  provoke  not. 

Baj.     Can  a  king  want  a  cause,  when  empire  bids 
Go  on  ?     What  is  he  born  for,  but  ambition  1 
It  is  his  hunger,  'tis  his  call  of  nature. 
The  noble  appetite  which  will  be  satisfied. 
And,  like  the  food  of  gods,  makes  him  immortal. 

Tarn.     Henceforth  I  will  not  wonder  we  were  foes. 
Since  souls  that  differ  so,  by  nature  hate. 
And  strong  antipathy  forbids  their  union. 

Baj.     The  noble  fire  that  warms  me  does  indeed 
Transcend  thy  coldness.     I  am  pleased  we  differ, 
Nor  think  alike. 

Ta7n.     No :  for  I  think  like  man  ; 
Thou,  like  a  monster,  from  whose  baleful  presence 
Nature  starts  back  ;  and  though  she  fixed  her  stamp 
On  thy  rough  mass,  and  marked  thee  for  a  man, 
Now,  conscious  of  her  error,  she  disclaims  thee. 
As  formed  for  her  destruction. 
'Tis  true,  I  am  a  king,  as  thou  hast  been ; 
Honor  and  glory  too,  have  been  my  aim  ;  " 

But  though  I  dare  face  death,  and  all  the  dangers 
Which  furious  war  wears  in  its  bloody  front, 
Yet  would  I  choose  to  fix  my  name  by  peace, 
By  justice,  and  by  mercy  ;  and  to  raise 
My  trophies  on  the  blessings  of  mankind : 
Nor  would  I  buy  the  empire  of  the  world 
With  ruin  of  the  i)eople  whom  I  sway. 
Or  forfeit  of  my  honor. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  59 

Bjj.     Prophet,  T  thank  thee. 
Confusion !  couldst  thou  rob  me  of  my  glory, 
To  dress  up  this  tame  king,  this  preaching  dervise! 
Unfit  for  war.  thou  shouldst  have  lived  secure 
In  lazy  peace,  and  with  debating  senates 
Shared  a  precarious  scepter ;  sat  tamely  still, 
And  let  bold  faction  canton  out  thy  power, 
And  wrangle  for  the  spoils  they  robbed  thee  of; 
Whilst  I.  (0  blast  the  power  that  stops  my  ardor.) 
Would,  like  a  tempest,  rush  amidst  the  nations, 
Be  greatly  terrible,  and  deal,  like  Alha, 
My  angry  thunder  on  the  frighted  world. 

Tarn.     The  world  !  'twould  be  too  little  for  thy  pride  ; 
Thou  wouldst  scale  heaven. 

Baj.     I  would.     Away  !  my  soul 
Disdains  thy  conference. 

Tarn.     Thou  vain,  rash  thing, 
That,  with  gigantic  insolence,  has  dared 
To  lift  thy  wretched  self  above  the  stars. 
And  mate  with  power  Almighty,  thou  art  fallen  ! 

Baj.     'Tis  false !  I  am  not  fallen  from  aught  I  have  been  ! 
At  least  my  soul  resolves  to  keep  her  state, 
And  scorns  to  make  acquaintance  with  ill  fortune. 

Tarn.     Almost  beneath  my  pity  thou  art  fallen  ; 
Since,  while  the  avenging  hand  of  Heaven  is  on  thee, 
And  presses  to  the  dust  thy  swelling  soul. 
Fool-hardy,  with  the  stronger  thou  contendest. 
To  what  vast  heights  had  thy  tumultuous  temper 
Been  hurried,  if  success  had  crowned  thy  wishes  ! 
Say.  what  had  I  to  expect  if  thou  hadst  conquered  ? 

Baj.     Oh,  glorious  thought !     Ye  powers,  I  will  enjoy  it, 
Though  but  in  fancy :  imagination  shall 
Make  room  to  entertain  the  vast  idea. 
Oh  !  had  I  been  master  but  of  yesterday, 
The  world,  the  world  had  felt  me ;  and  for  thee, 
I  had  used  thee,  as  thou  art  to  me.  a  dog. 
The  object  of  my  scorn  and  mortal  hatred. 
I  would  have  caged  thee  for  the  sport  of  slaves. 
I  would  have  taught  thy  neck  to  know  my  weight, 
And  mounted  from  that  footstool  to  the  saddle, 
Till  thou  hadst  begged  to  die ;  and  even  that  mercy 
I  had  denied  thee.     Now  thou  knowest  my  mind, 
And  question  me  no  farther. 

Tarn.     Well  dost  thou  teach  me 


60  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

What  justice  should  exact  from  thee.     Mankind, 
With  one  consent,  cry  out  for  vengeance  on  thee ; 
Loudly  they  call  to  cut  off  this  league-breaker, 
This  wild  destroyer  from  the  face  of  earth. 

Baj.     Do  it,  and  rid  thy  shaking  soul  at  once 
Of  its  worst  fear. 

Tarn.     Why  slept  the  thunder 
That  should  have  armed  the  idol  deity, 
And  given  thee  power,  ere  yester  sun  was  set, 
To  shake  the  soul  of  Tamerlane  ?     Hadst  thou  an  arm 
To  make  thee  feared,  thou  shouldst  have  proved  it  on  me, 
Amidst  the  sweat  and  blood  of  yonder  field. 
When,  through  the  tumult  of  the  war,  I  sought  thee, 
Fenced  in  with  nations. 

Baj      Oh,  blast  the  stars 
That  fated  us  to  different  scenes  of  slaughter ! 
Oh  !  could  my  sword  have  met  thee ! 

Tarn.     Thou  hadst  then, 
As  now,  been  in  my  power,  and  held  thy  life 
Dependent  on  my  gift.     Yes,  Bajazet, 
I  bid  thee  live.     So  much  my  soul  disdains 
That  thou  shouldst  think  I  can  fear  aught  but  Heaven. 
Nay  more ;  couldst  thou  forget  thy  brutal  fierceness, 
And  form  thyself  to  manhood,  I  would  bid  thee 
Live,  and  be  still  a  king,  that  thou  mayst  learn 
What  man  should  be  to  man. — 
This  royal  tent,  with  such  of  thy  domestics 
As  can  be  found,  shall  wait  upon  thy  service  ; 
Nor  will  I  use  my  fortune  to  demand 
Hard  terms  of  peace  ;  but  such  as  thou  mayst  offer 
With  honor,  I  with  honor  may  receive. 


Troilus.    Patience  herself,  what  eroddess  e'er  she  be, 
Doth  lesser  blanch  at  suffarance,  than  I  do  —  I'loil.  s  and  Cressida, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  61 

XX.— FROM   ANTONY  AND  CLEOFATUK.—Shakspeare. 
ANTONY VENTIDIUS. 

Anto7iy.     They  tell  me  'tis  my  birthday  ;  and  I'll  keep  it 
With  double  pomp  of  sadness. 
'Tis  what  the  day  deserves,  which  gave  me  breath. 
Why  was  I  raised  the  meteor  of  the  world, 
Hung  in  the  skies,  and  blazing  as  I  traveled, 
Till  all  my  fires  were  spent,  and  then  cast  downwards 
To  be  trod  out  by  Caesar  ? 

Ventidius.     I  must  disturb  him.     I  can  hold  no  longer. 

[^Stands  before  him.'\ 

Ant.     [Starting  up.]     Art  thou  Ventidius  ? 

Vent.     Are  you  Antony  ? 
I'm  liker  what  I  was,  than  you  to  him 
I  left  you  last. 

Ant.     I'm  angry. 

Vent.     So  am  I. 

Ant.     I  would  be  private.     Leave  me. 

Vent.     Sir,  I  love  you, 
A.nd  therefore  will  not  leave  you. 

Ant.     Will  not  leave  me ! 
Where  have  you  learnt  this  answer?  *  Who  am  I? 

Vent.     My  emperor ;  the  man  I  love  next  HeaveiL 

Ant.     Emperor?     Why  that's  the  style  of  victory. 
The  conquering  soldier,  red  with  unfelt  wounds, 
Salutes  his  general  so  :  but  never  more 
Shall  that  sound  reach  my  ears. 

Vent.     1  warrant  you. 

Ant.     Actium,  Actium  !     Oh — 

Vent.     It  sits  too  near  you. 

A7it      Here,  here  it  lies  !  a  lump  of  lead  by  day ; 
And,  in  my  short  distracted  nightly  slumbers, 
The  hag  that  rides  my  dreams — 

Vent.     Out  with  it;  give  it  vent. 

Ant.     Urge  not  my  shame — • 
I  lost  a  battle. 

Vent.     So  has  Julius  done. 

Ant.     Thou   favorest  me,  and  speakest  not  half  thou 
thinkest ; 
For  Julius  fought  it  out,  and  lost  it  fairly : 
but  Antony — 

6 


02  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOIJUES. 

Vent.     Nay,  stop  not. 

Ani.     Antony 
(Well,  thou  wilt  have  it)  like  a  coward  fled, 
Fled  while  his  soldiers  fought !  fled  first,  Ventidius. 
Thou  longest  to  curse  me  ;  I  give  thee  leave. 
I  know  thou  earnest  prepared  to  rail. 

Vent.     No. 

Ant.     Why  ? 

Vent.     You  are  too  sensible  already 
Of  what  you're  done  ;  too  conscious  of  your  failings ; 
And  like  a  scorpion,  whipped  by  others  first 
To  fury,  sting  yourself  in  mad  revenge. 
I  would  bring  balm,  and  pour  it  in  your  wounds, 
Cure  your  distempered  mind,  and  heal  your  fortunes. 

Ant.     I  know  thou  wouldst. 

Vent.     I  will. 

Ant.     Sure  thou  dreamest,  Ventidius  ! 

Vent.     No,  'tis  you  dream  ;  you  sleep  away  your  hours 
In  desperate  sloth,  miscalled  philosophy. 
Up,  up,  for  honor's  sake  ;  twelve  legions  wait  you, 
And  long  to  call  you  chief     By  painful  journeys 
I  led  them,  patient  both  of  heat  and  hunger, 
Down  from  the  Parthian  marches,  to  the  Nile. 
'Twill  do  you  good  to  see  their  sun-burnt  faces, 
Their  scarred  cheeks,  and  chopped  hands  ;  there's  virtue  in 

them ; 
They'll  sell  those  mangled  limbs  at  dearer  rates 
Than  yon  trim  bands  can  buy. 

Ant.     Where  left  you  them  ? 

Vent.     I  said,  in  Lower  Syria. 

AtU.     Bring  them  hither  ; 
There  may  be  life  in  these. 

Vent.     They  will  not  come. 

Ant.     Why  did  they  refuse  to  march  ? 

Vent.     They  said  they  would  not  fight  for  Cleopatra. 

Ant.     What  was't  they  said  ? 

Vent.     They  said  they  would  not  fight  for  Cleopatra- 
Why  should  they  fight,  indeed,  to  make  her  conqueror, 
And  make  you  more  a  slave  ? 

Ant.     Ventidius,  I  allow  your  tongue  free  license 
On  all  my  other  faults ;  but,  on  your  life, 
No  word  of  Cleopatra  ; — she  deserves 
More  worlds  than  I  can  lose. 

Venr      Behold  you  powers, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  63 

To  whom  you  have  intrusted  human  kind  ! 

See  Europe.  Asia  Africa  put  in  balance, 

And  all  weighed  down  by  one  light,  worthless  woman  ! 

Ant.     You  grow  presumptuous. 

Vent.     I  take  the  privilege  of  plain  love  to  speak. 

Ant.     Plain  love  !  plain  arrogance  !  plain  insolence ! 
Thy  men  are  cowards  ;  thou  an  envious  traitor, 
Who,  Tinder  seeming  honesty  hast  vented 
The  burden  of  thy  rank  o'erflowing  gall. 
Oh,  that  thou  wert  my  equal,  great  in  arms 
As  the  first  Caesar  was  that  1  might  kill  thee 
Without  a  stain  to  honor ! 

Vent.     You  may  kill  me; 
You  have  done  more  already ;  called  me  a  traitor. 

Ant.     Art  thou  riot  one  \ 

Vent.     For  showing  you  yourself, 
Which  no  one  else  durst  have  done.     But  had  I  been 
That  name,  which  I  disdain  to  speak  again, 
I  need  not  have  sought  your  abject  fortunes, 
Come  to  partake  your  fate,  to  die  with  you. 
What  hindered  me  to  have  led  my  conquering  eagles 
To  fill  Octavius'  bands  ?     I  could  have  been 
A  traitor  then,  a  glorious,  happy  traitor, 
And  not  have  been  so  called. 

Ant.     Forgive  me,  soldier  ; 
I've  been  too  passionate. 

Vent.     You  thought  me  false ; 
Thought  my  old  age  betrayed  you.     Kill  me,  sir, 
Pray  kill  me  ;  yet  you  need  not ;  your  unkindness 
Has  left  your  sword  no  work. 

Ant.     I  did  not  think  so  ; 
I  said  it  in  my  rage  :  prithee  forgive  me. 
Thou  only  lovest,  the  rest  have  flattered  me. 

Vent.     Heaven's  blessing  on  your  heart,  for  that  kind  word. 
May  I  believe  you  love  me  ?     Speak  again. 

Ant.     Indeed  I  do.     Do  with  me  what  thou  wilt . 
Lead  me  to  victory,  thou  knowest  the  way. 

Vent.     And  will  you  leave  this — 

Ant.     Prithee  do  not  curse  her. 
And  I  will  leave  her ;  though  heaven  knows,  I  love 
Beyond  life,  conquest,  empire,  all  but  honor ; 
But  I  will  leave  her. 

Vent.     That's  my  royal  master : 
And  shall  we  fight? 


64  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Ant.     I  warrant  thee,  old  soldier : 
Thou  shalt  behold  me  once  again  in  iron, 
And  at  the  head  of  our  old  troops,  that  beat 
The  Parthians,  cry  aloud,  come,  follow  me ! 

Vent.     Methinks  you  breathe 
Another  soul ;  your  looks  are  more  sublime; 
You  speak  a  hero,  and  you  move  like  Mars. 

Ant.     0,  thou  hast  fired  me  !     My  soul  is  up  in  arms ! 
And  mans  each  part  about  me.     Once  again 
That  noble  eagerness  of  fight  has  seized  me  ; 
That  eagerness  with  which  I  darted  upward 
To  Cassius'  camp.     In  vain  the  steepy  hill 
Opposed  my  way !     In  vain  a  war  of  spears 
Sung  round  my  head,  and  planted  all  my  shield  ! 
I  won  the  trenches,  while  my  foremost  men 
Lagged  on  the  plain  below. 

Vent.     Ye  gods,  ye  gods  ! 
For  such  another  hour  ! 

Ant.     Come  on,  my  soldier  ; 
Our  hearts  and  arms  are  still  the  same.     I  long 
Once  more  to  meet  our  foes ;  that  thou  and  I, 
Like  Time  and  Death,  marching  before  our  troops, 
May  take  fate  to  them ;  mow  them  out  a  passage. 
And  entering  where  the  utmost  squadrons  yield, 
Begin  the  noble  harvest  of  the  field. 


XXL— FROM  THE  PEASANT  BOY.— Dimondl 

ALBERTI JULIAN MONTALDI STEP  AND LUDOVICO AM- 
BROSE  VINCENT GUARDS,    fcC. 

\TLnter  Guards^  conducting  Julian — all  tlw  characters  fol- 
low., and  a  crowd  of  vassals — Alberti  advances  to  the 
judgineyit  seat.] 

Alberti.  My  people  ! — the  cause  of  your  present  assem- 
blage too  well  is  known  to  you.  You  come  to  witness  the 
dispensations  of  an  awful  but  impartial  justice ; — either  to 
rejoice  in  the  acquittal  of  innocence  wrongfully  accused,  or 
to  approve  the  conviction  of  guilt,  arrested  in  its  foul  career. 
Personal  feelings  forbid  me  to  assume  this  seat  myself;  yet 


SERIOUS    ASD    SENTIMENTAL.  65 

fear  not  but  that  it  will  be  filled  by  nobleness  and  honor ; — 
to  Montaldi  only,  I  resign  it. 

Julian.     He  my  judge!  then  I  am  lost  indeed.     \^Asidei\ 

Alb.  Ascend  the  seat,  my  friend,  and  decide  from  it  as 
your  own  virtuous  conscience  shall  direct :  this  only  will  I 
say :  should  the  scales  of  accusation  and  defense  poise  doubt- 
fully, let  mercy  touch  them  with  her  downy  hand,  and  turn 
the  balance  on  the  gentler  side. 

Montaldi.  {Ascending  the  seat.^  Your  will  and  honor 
are  my  only  governors !  {Bows.'\  Julian  !  stand  forth ' 
you  are  charged  with  a  most  foul  and  horrible  attempt  upon 
the  life  of  my  noble  kinsman — the  implements  of  murder  have 
been  found  in  your  possession,  and  many  powerful  circum- 
stances combine  to  fix  the  guilt  upon  you.  What  have  you 
to  urge  in  vindication  ? 

Jid.  First,  I  swear  by  that  Power,  whom  vice  dreads  and 
virtue  reverences,  that  no  syllable  but  strictest  truth  shall 
pass  my  lips : — on  the  evening  of  yesterday,  I  crossed  the 
mountain  to  the  monastery  of  St.  Bertrand  ;  my  errand 
thither  finished,  I  returned  directly  to  the  valley.  Rosalie 
saw  me  enter  the  cottage — soon  afterwards  a  strange  outcry 
recalled  me  to  the  door  ;  a  mantle  spread  before  the  thresh- 
old caught  my  eye  ;  I  raised  it,  and  discovered  a  mask 
within  it.  The  mantle  was  newly  stained  with  blood !  con- 
sternation seized  upon  my  soul — the  next  mixiute  I  was 
surrounded  by  guards,  and  accused  of  murder.  They  pro- 
duced a  weapon  I  had  lost  in  defending  myself  against  a 
ferocious  animal ;  confounded  by  terror  and  surprise,  I  had 
not  power  to  explain  the  truth,  and  loaded  with  chains  and 
reproaches.  I  was  dragged  to  the  dungeons  of  the  castle. 
Here  my  knowledge  of  the  dark  transaction  ends,  and  I 
have  only  this  to  add — I  may  become  the  victim  of  circum- 
stance, but  I  never  have  been  the  slave  of  crime  ! 

Mon.  {Smiling  iro7iically.'\  Plausibly  urged ;  have  you 
no  more  to  ofl^er  ? 

Jul.     Truth  needs  but  few  words — I  have  spoken  ! 

Mon.  Yet  bethink  yourself — dare  you  abide  by  this  wild 
tale,  and  brave  a  sentence  on  no  stronger  plea  1 

Jul.     Alas  !  I  have  none  else  to  offer ! 

Mon.  You  say.  on  the  evening  of  yesterday,  you  visited 
the  monastery  of  St.  Bertrand.  What  was  your  business 
there  ? 

Jul.     With  father  Nicolo — to  engage  him  to  marry  Rosa- 
lie and  myself  on  the  following  morning. 
D  6* 


66  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Mon.  A  marriage  too  !  Well ! — at  what  time  did  you 
quit  the  monastery  ? 

Jul.     The  bell  for  vesper-service  had  just  ceased  to  toll. 

Mon.     By  what  path  did  you  return  to  the  valley  ? 

Jul.     Across  the  mountain. 

Mon.  Did  you  not  pass  through  the  wood  of  olives, 
where  the  dark  deed  was  attempted  ? 

Jul.     \_Recollecti7ig.']     The  wood  of  olives  ? 

Mon.     Ha !  mark !  he  hesitates — speak  ! 

Jul.  No  !  my  soul  scorns  to  tell  a  falsehood.  I  did  pass 
through  the  wood  of  olives. 

Mon.  Ay  !  and  pursuit  was  close  behind.  Stefano,  you 
seized  the  prisoner  ? 

Stefano.  I  did.  The  bloody  weapon  bore  his  name  ;  the 
mask  and  mantle  were  in  his  hands  confusion  in  his  coun- 
tenance, and  every  limb  shaking  with  alarm. 

Mon.  Enough !  heavens  !  that  villainy  so  monstrous 
should  inhabit  with  such  tender  youth  !  I  fain  would  doubt, 
and  in  despite  of  reason,  hesitate  to  give  my  sentence ;  but 
conviction  glares  from  every  point,  and  incredulity  would 
now  be  madness.  Not  to  descant  on  the  absurdity  of  your 
defense,  a  tale  too  wild  for  romance  itself  to  sanction,  I  find 
from  your  admission  a  damning  chain  of  circumstance  that 
confirms  your  criminality.  The  time  at  which  you  passed 
the  .wood,  and  the  hour  of  the  duke's  attack,  precisely  cor- 
respond. Your  attachment  to  Rosalie  presents  the  motive 
of  your  offense  ;  burning  with  impatient  love,  knowing 
vanity  to  sway  the  soul  of  woman,  and  trusting  to  win  its 
influence  by  the  bribes  of  luxury,  you  sought  to  rush  on 
fortune  by  the  readiest  path,  and  snatch  from  the  unwary 
traveler  that  sudden  wealth  which  honest  labor  could  only 
by  slow  degrees  obtain.  Defeated  in  the  dark  attempt,  you 
fled — pursuit  was  instant — your  steps  were  traced — and  at 
the  very  door  of  your  cottage,  you  were  seized  before  the 
evidences  of  your  guilt  could  be  secreted.  Oh  !  wretched 
youth,  I  warn  you  to  confess.  Sincerity  can  be  your  only 
claim  to  mercy. 

Jul.  My  heart  will  burst — but  I  have  spoken  truth: 
yes, — Heaven  knows  that  I  have  spoken  truth ! 

Mon.  Then  I  must  exercise  my  duty.  Death  is  my 
sentence. 

Jul.     Hold  ! — pronounce  it  not  as  yet ! 

Mon.     If  you  have  any  further  evidence,  produce  it. 

Jul.     \  With  despairing  energy.']     I  call  on  Ludovico  ' 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  '07 

[^Ludovico  steps  forward  with  alax:,rity — Montaldi  recoils 
with  visible  trepidatio7i.'] 

Ludovico.     I  am  here  ! 

Mon.  And  what  can  he  unfold  !  only  repeat  that  which 
we  already  know.  I  will  not  hear  him — the  evidence  is 
perfect — 

Alb.  {^Rising  with  warmth.']  Hold  !  Montaldi,  Ludo- 
vico must  be  heard  ;  to  the  ear  of  justice,  the  lightest  sylla- 
ble of  proof  is  precious. 

Mon.  [Confused.'}  I  stand  rebuked.  Well,  Ludovico, 
depose  your  evidence. 

Lud.  Mine  was  the  fortunate  arm  appointed  by  Heaven 
to  rescue  the  duke.  I  fought  with  the  assassin,  and  drove 
him  beyond  the  trees  into  the  open  lawn.  I  there  distinctly 
marked  his  figure,  and  from  the  difference  in  the  height 
alone,  I  solemnly  aver  Julian  cannot  be  the  person. 

Mon.  This  is  no  proof — the  eye  might  easily  be  deceived. 
I  cannot  withhold  my  sentence  longer. 

Lud.  I  have  further  matter  to  advance.  Just  before  the 
ruffian  fled,  he  received  a  wound  across  his  right  hand  ;  the 
moonlight  directed  my  blow,  and  showed  me  that  the  cut 
was  deep  and  dangerous.  Julian's  fingers  bear  no  such 
mark. 

Mon.  [Evinciitg  great  emotion  and  involuntarily  draio- 
ing  his  glove  closer  over  his  hand.'\     A  wound — mere  fable — 

Ijud.  Nay,  more — the  same  blow  struck  from  ofTono  of 
the  assassin's  fingers,  a  jewel;  it  glittered  as  it  fell;  I 
snatched  it  from  the  grass — I  thrust  it  within  my  bosom,  and 
have  ever  since  preserved  it  next  my  heart :  I  now  produce 
it — 'tis  here — a  ring — an  amethyst  set  with  brilliants  ! 

Alh.  [Rising  hastily?^  What  say  you  %  an  amethyst 
set  with  brilliants  !  even  such  I  gave  Montaldi.  Let  me 
view  it  ! — 

[As  Ludovico  advances  to  present  the*  ring  to  the  duke., 
Montaldi  rushes  with  frantic  impetuosity  between.,  and 
attempts  to  seize  it.] 

Mon.     Slave  !  resign  the  ring ! 

Lud.     I  will  yield  my  life  sooner  ! 

Mon.  Wretch  !  I  will  rend  thy  frame  to  atoms  !  [77iey 
struggle  with  violence,  Montaldi  snatches  at  the  ring.,  Lu- 
dovico catches  his  hand  and  tears  off  tlie  glove — the  wound 
appears.'] 

Lud.  Oh  !  God  !  murder  is  unmasked — the  bloody  mark 
is  here  !     Montaldi  is  the  assassin      ['  All  rush  forward  in 


68  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

astonishment — Julian  drops  upon  his  knee  in  mute  thanks- 
giving.'] 

Mon.     Shame  !  madness  !  hell ! 

Alb.     Eternal  Providence  !  Montaldi  a  murderer  ! 

Mon.  Ay !  accuse,  and  curse  !  idiots  !  dupes  !  I  heed 
you  not.  I  can  but  die  !  Triumph  not,  Alberti — I  trample 
on  thee  still !  [Draws  a  poignard  and  attempts  to  destroy 
himself — the  weapon  is  wrested  from  his  hand  by  t  lie  guards.'] 

Alb.     Fiend  !  thy  power  to  sin  is  past. 

Mon.  [Delirious  with  passion.]  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !  my  brain 
scorches,  and  my  veins  run  with  fire  !  disgraced,  dishonored  ! 
oh!  madness  !  I  cannot  bear  it— save  me — oh  !  [Falls  in- 
sensible into  the  arms  of  attendants.] 

Alb.  Wretched  man'  bear  him  to  his  chamber — his 
punishment  be  hereafter.     [Montaldi  is  carried  off.] 

Jul.     Oh !  my  joy  is  too  full  for  words  ! 

Ambrose.     My  noble  boy  ! 

Vincent.     Rosalie  shall  reward  him. 

Alb.  Yes.  they  are  children  of  virtue !  their  happiness 
shall  be  my  future  care.  Let  this  day,  through  each  return- 
ing year,  become  a  festival  on  my  domain.  Heaven,  with 
peculiar  favor,  has  marked  it  for  its  own,  and  taught  us,  by 
the  simple  moral  of  this  hour,  that  howsoever  in  darkness 
guilt  may  veil  its  malefactions  from  the  eye  of  man,  an  om- 
niscient Judge  will  penetrate  each  hidden  sin,  and  still,  with 
never-failing  justice,  confound  the  vicious  and  protect  the 
good  ! 

Jul.     The  peasant  boy,  redeemed  from  fate, 
Must  here  for  mercy  sue, 
He  dares  not  trust  decrees  of  state, 
Till  ratified  by  you. 

Alb.     Then,  gentles  !  prithee  grant  our  prayer, 
*  Nor  cloud  the  dawning  joy, 

"  Not  guilty  !"  by  your  hands  declare, 
And  save  the  peasant  boy  ! 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  69 


XXII.— FROM  HENRY  THE  FOMRTR.—Shakspeare.     " 

HOTSPUR EARL      OF      I^OUGLAS RABY EARL      OF      WORCES- 
TER  SIR    RICHARD    VERNON. 

Hotspur.     Well  said,  my  noble  Scot :  If  speaking  truth, 
In  this  fine  age,  were  not  thought  flattery, 
Such  attribution  should  the  Douglas  have, 
As  not  a  soldier  of  this  season's  stamp 
Should  go  so  general  current  through  the  world. 
By  Heaven,  I  cannot  flatter !  I  defy 
The  tongues  of  soothers  :  but  a  braver  place 
In  my  heart's  love  hath  no  man  than  yourself. 
Nay,  task  me  to  the  word  ;  approve  me,  lord. 

Douglas.     Thou  art  the  king  of  honor. 
No  man  so  potent  breathes  upon  tb.**  ground, 
But  I  will  beard  him. 

Hot.     Do  so,  and  'tis  well : — 

[Enter  Raby.] 
What  letters  hast  thou  there  ? 

Rab.     These  letters  come  from  your  father. 

Hot.     Letters  from  him  !  why  comes  he  not  himself? 

Rob.     He  cannot  come,  my  lord  ;  he's  grievous  sick. 

Worcester.     I  would,  the  state  o^  time  had  first  been  whole 
Ere  he  by  sickness  had  been  visited  ! 
His  health  was  never  better  worth  than  now. 

Hot.     Sick  now  !  droop  now  !  this  sickness  doth  infect 
The  very  life-blood  of  our  enterprise  ; 
'Tis  catching  hither,  even  to  our  camp. — 
He  writes  me  here. — that  inward  sickness, — 
And  that  his  friends  by  deputation  could  not 
So  soon  be  drawn  ; — 
Yet  doth  he  give  us  bold  advertisement, 
That,  with  our  small  conjunction,  we  should  on 
To  see  how  fortune  is  disposed  to  us  ; 
For,  as  he  writes,  there  is  no  quailing  now ; 
Because  the  king  is  certainly  possessed 
Of  all  our  purposes.     What  say  you  to  it? 

War.     Your  father's  sickness  is  a  maim  to  us. 
It  will  be  thought 

By  some,  that  know  not  why  he  is  away, 
That  wisdom,  loyalty,  and  mere  dislike 


70 


NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


Of  our  proceedings,  kept  the  earl  from  hence ; 
This  absence  of  your  father's  draws  a  curtain 
That  shows  the  ignorant  a  kind  of  fear 
Before  not  dreamt  of 

Hot.     You  strain  too  far. 
I  rather,  of  his  absence  make  this  use : — 
It  lends  a  luster,  and  more  great  opinion, 
A  larger  dare  to  our  great  enterprise 
Than  if  the  earl  were  here :  for  men  must  think 
If  we,  without  his  help  can  make  a  head 
To  push  against  the  kingdom  ;  with  his  help 
We  shall  o'erturn  it  topsy-turvy  down — 
Yet  all  goes  well,  yet  all  our  joints  are  whole. 

Doug.     As  heart  can  think  :  there  is  not  such  a  word 
Spoke  of  in  Scotland,  as  this  term  of  fear. 

l^Enter  Sir  Richard  Vernon  and  two  gentlemen.^ 

Hot.     My  cousin  Vernon  !  welcome  ! 

Ver.     Pray  Heaven,  my  news  be  worth  a  welcome,  lord ! 
The  Earl  of  Westmoreland,  seven  thousand  strong, 
Is  marching  hitherwards  ;  with  him.  Prince  John. 

Hot.     No  harm  :     What  more  ? 

Ver.     And  further  I  have  learned, — • 
The  king  himself  in  person  is  set  forth 
Or  hitherwards  intended  speedily. 
With  strong  and  mighty  preparation. 

Hot.     He  shall  be  welcome  too.     Where  is  his  son. 
The  nimble-footed  madcap,  Prince  of  Wales, 
And  his  comrades  that  doffed  the  world  aside. 
And  bid  it  pass  1 

Ver.     All  furnished,  all  in  arms, 
All  plumed  like  ostriches,  that  with  the  wind 
Bated,  like  eagles  having  lately  bathed  ! 
Glittering  in  golden  coats,  like  images  ; 
As  full  of  spirit  as  the  month  of  May, 
And  gorgeous  as  the  sun  at  midsummer  ! 
I  saw  young  Harry, — with  his  beaver  on, 
His  cuisses  on  his  thighs,  gallantly  armed, 
Kise  from  the  ground  like  feather'd  Mercury, 
And  vaulted  with  such  ease  into  his  seat 
As  if  an  angel  dropt  down  from  the  clouds 
To  turn  and  wind  a  fiery  Pegasus, 
And  witch  the  world  with  noble  horsemanship. 

Hot.     No  more,  no  more,  worse  than  the  sun  in  March 
This  praise  doth  nourish  agues.     Let  them  come. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  71 

TRey  come  like  sacrifices  in  their  trim, 

And  to  the  fire-eyed  maid  of  smoky  war, 

AIJ  hot  and  bleeding  will  we  ofl!er  them : 

The  mailed  Mars  shall  on  his  altar  sit, 

Up  to  the  ears  in  blood.     I  am  on  fire. 

To  hear  this  rich  reprisal  is  so  nigh, 

And  yet  not  ours :  Come,  let  me  take  my  horse 

Who  is  to  bear  me  like  a  thunderbolt. 

Against  the  bosom  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  :      ^ 

Harry  to  Harry  shall — hot  horse  to  horse — 

Meet  ne'er  to  part,  till  one  drops  down  a  corse. 

0  that  Glendower  were  come ! 
Ver.     There  is  more  news : 

1  learned  in  Worcester,  as  I  rode  along, 

He  cannot  draw  his  power  this  fourteen  days. 

Hot.     What  may  the  king's  whole  battle  reach  unto  ? 

Ver.     To  thirty  thousand. 

Hot.     Forty  let  it  be  ; 
My  father  and  Glendower  being  both  away, 
The  powers  of  us  may  serve  so  great  a  day. 
Come,  let  us  take  a  muster  speedily  ; 
Doomsday  is  near ;  die  all ;  die  merrily. 


XXIII— FROM  DAMON  AND  PYTHIAS.— 5AiW. 

PHILISTIPS DIONYSIUS DAMOCLES DAMON SENATORS 

PROCLES SOLDIERS. 

First  Senator.     So  soon  warned  back  again  ! 

Dionysius.     So  soon,  good  fathers. 
My. last  despatches  here  set  forth,  that  scarce 
I  had  amassed  and  formed  our  gallant  legions, 
When,  as  by  magic,  word  of  the  precaution 
Was  spirited  to  their  camp — and  on  the  word, 
These  Carthaginians  took  their  second  thought, 
And  so  fell  back. 

PhilistiMS.     I  do  submit  to  you. 
That  out  of  this  so  happy  consequence 
Of  Dionysius'  movement  on  the  citadel, 
Not  only  is  his  pardon  for  the  act 
Freely  drawn  forth,  but  we  are  called  upon 


I  2  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Our  thanks  most  manifestly  to  express 
For  such  a  noble  service. 

IHon.     Good  Philistius, 
I  am  a  soldier — yours  and  the  state's  servant, 
And  claim  no  notice  for  my  duty  done 
Beyond  the  doing  it — and  the  best  thanks 
I  merit,  or  can  have,  lie  in  the  issue 
Which  has  most  happily  resulted. 

Damocles.     Nay, 
It  rests  in  us*  to  say  so. 

Phil.     Dionysius, 
The  work  which  of  this  enterprise  thou  hast  made, 
Proves  that  our  citadel,  and  its  resources. 
Have  been  misused,  and  never  so  controlled 
And  ordered  for  our  good,  as  by  thyself; — 
Therefore  retain  it,  govern  and  direct  it. 
Would  the  whole  state  were  like  the  citadel ! 
In  hot  and  angry  times  like  these,  we  want 
Even  such  a  man. 

Dam.     I,  from  my  heart,  assent  to 
And  second  this  proposal. 

Dion.     Most  reverend  fathers — 

Da7n.     We  pray  thee  silence,  noble  Dionysius  ! 
All  here  do  know  what  your  great  modesty 
Will  urge  you  to  submit — but  I  will  raise 
This  envious  veil  wherein  you  shroud  yourself. 
It  is  the  time  to  speak ;  our  country's  danger 
Calls  loudly  for  some  measure  at  our  hands. 
Prompt  and  decisive. 

Damon.     [  Without.]     Thou  most  lowly  mmion  I 
I'll  have  thee  whipped  for  it,  and  by  the  head 
Made  less  even  than  thou  art.     [Enter  Damon.] 

Phil.     Who  breaks  so  rude  and  clamorously  in 
To  scare  our  grave  deliberations? 

Damon.     A  senator  ! — First  let  me  ask  you  why 
Upon  my  way  here  to  sit  down  with  you, 
I  have  encountered  in  the  open  streets, 
Nay,  at  the  very  threshold  of  your  doors, 
Soldiers  and  satellites  arrayed  and  marshalled 
With  their  swords  out?     Why  have  I  been  obstructed 
By  an  armed  bandit  in  my  peaceful  Avalk  here, 
To  take  my  rightful  seat  in  the  senate-house  ? 
Why  has  a  ruffian  soldier  privilege 
To  hold  his  weapon  to  my  throat  %     A  tainted, 


SERIOUS    AND    S3NTIMENTAL.  73 

Disgraced,  and  abject  traitor,  Procles  ?     Who 
Dared  place  the  soldiers  round  the  senate»house? 

Phil     I  pray  you,  fathers,  let  not  this  rash  man 
Disturb  the  grave' and  full  consideration 
Of  the  important  matter  touching  which 
We  spoke  ere  he  rushed  in. 

Dam.     I  did  require 
To  know  from  you,  without  a  hand  or  head, 
Such  as  to  us  hath  been  our  Dionysius, 
What  now  were  our  most  likely  fate  ? 

Damon      The  fate 
Of  freemen  in  the  full ;  free  exercise 
Of  all  the  noble  rights  that  freemen  love  ! 
Free  in  our  streets  to  walk ;  free  in  our  counsels 
To  speak  and  act. 

Phil.     I  do  entreat  you,  senators, 
Protect  me  from  this  scolding  demagogue, 
And  let  us  win  your 

Damon.     Demagogue,  Philistius  ! 
Who  was  the  demagogue,  when  at  my  challenge 
He  was  denounced  and  silenced  by  the  senate, 
And  your  scant  oratory  spent  itself 
In  fume  and  vapor  ? 

Dam.     Silence,  Damon,  silence  ! 
And  let  the  council  use  its  privilege. 

Damon.     Who  bids  me  silence  ?     Damocles,  the  soft 
And  pliant  willow,  Damocles  ! — But  come. 
What  do  you  dare  propose  1     Come,  I'll  be  silent — 
Go  on. 

Phil     Resolve  you  then,  is  Dionysius 
This  head  indeed  to  us  ?     Acting  for  us — 
Yea,  governing,  that  long  have  proved  we  cannot, 
Although  we  feign  it,  govern  for  ourselves  ? 

Dam.     Then  who  so  fit,  in  such  extremity 
To  be  the  single  pillar,  on  whose  strength 
All  power  should  rest  ? 

Pkil     Ay,  and  what  needs  the  state 
Our  crowded  and  contentious  councils  here  1 
And  therefore,  senators, — countrymen,  rather, 
'That  we  may  be  wiser  and  better  ruled 
Than  by  ourselves  we  are  ;  that  the  state's  danger 
May  be  confronted  boldly,  and  that  he 
May  have  but  his  just  meed,  I  do  submit 
7  ' 


74  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

That  forthwith  we  dissolve  ourselves,  and  choose 
A  king  in  Dionysius. 

Dammi.     King  !  a  king  ? 

First  Sen.     I  do  approve  it 

Second  Sen.     Ay,  and  I 

Dam.     And  all. 

Damon.     And  all !  are  all  content  ? 
A  nation's  right  betrayed, 
And  all  content!     0  slaves!  0  parricides! 
O,  by  the  brightest  hope  a  just  man  has, 
I  blush  to  look  around  and  call  you  men  I 
What!  with  your  own  free  willing  hands  yield  up 
The  ancient  fabric  of  your  constitution, 
To  be  a  garrison,  a  common  barrack, 
A  common  guard -house,  and  for  common  cut-throats  I 
What !  will  ye  all  combine  to  tie  a  stone 
Each  to  each  other's  necks  and  drown  like  dogs 
Within  the  tide  of  time,  and  never  float 
To  after  ages  or  at  best,  but  float 
A  buoyant  pestilence  ?     Can  ye  but  dig 
Your  own  dark  graves,  creep  into  them,  and  die  ! 

Third  Sen.     I  have  not  sanctioned  it. 

Fourth  Sen.     Nor  I. 

Fifth  Sen.     Nor  I. 

Damon.     0  !  thanks  for  these  few  voices  !  but  alas  ! 
How  lonely  do  they  sound  !•    Do  you  not  all 
Start  up  at  once,  and  cry  out  liberty? 
Are  you  so  bound  in  fetters  of  the  mind, 
That  there  you  sit  as  if  you  were  yourselves 
Incorporate  with  the  marble  ?     Syracusans  ! — 
But,  no !  I  will  not  rail,  nor  chide,  nor  curse  ye  ! 
I  will  implore  you,  fellow-countrymen  ; 
With  blinded  eyes,  and  weak  and  broken  speech, 
I  will  implore  you. — 0  !  I  am  weak  in  words. 
But  I  could  bring  such  advocates  before  you ; — 
Your  fathers'  sacred  images  ;  old  men 
That  have  been  grandsires  ;  women  with  their  children, 
Caught  up  in  fear  and  hurry,  in  their  arms — 
And  those  old  men  should  lift  their  shivering  voices, 
A.nd  palsied  hands — and  those  afli'ighted  mothers 
Should  hold  their  innocent  infants  forth,  and  ask, 
Could  you  make  slaves  of  them !    • 

Phil.     I  dissolve  the  senate 
At  its  own  vote  and  instance.     \_Leaves  his  seat  ] 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  *I5 

Dam.     And  all  hail ! 
Hail,  Dionysiiis,  king  of  Syracuse ! 

Dion.     Is  this  the  vote  1 

Dmnon.     There  is  no  vote  !     Philistius, 
Hold  you  your  seat ;  keep  in  your  places,  senators. 

Dion.     I  ask,  is  this  the  vote  % 

Phil.     It  is  the  vote. 
My  gracious  liege  and  sovereign  ! 

Damon.     I  say  nay  ! 
You  have  not  voted,  Naxillus,  nor  Petus — 
Nor  you,  nor  you,  nor  you. 

Phil.     In  my  capacity 
As  head  and  organ  of  the  city  council, 
I  do  asseverate  it  is  the  vote  ! 

{They  all  kneel  to  Dionysius^  except  Damon.'] 

Dion.     I  thank  you,  friends  and  countrymen,  I  thank  ye; 

Damon.     0,  all  the  gods  !  my  country,  O,  my  country  ! 

Dion.     And  that  we  may  have  leisure  to  put  on 
With  fitting  dignity  our  garb  of  powpr 
We  do  now,  first  assuming  our  own  right, 
Command  from  this,  that  was  the  senate-house, 
Those  rash,  tumultuous  men,  who  still  would  tempt 
The  city's  peace  with  wild  vociferation. 
And  vain  contentious  rivalry.     Begone  ! 

Damon.     I  stand 
A  senator  within  the  senate-house. 

Dion.     Traitor  !  and  dost  thou  dare  me  to  my  face  ? 

Damon.     Traitor!  to  whom?  to  thee?— O,  Syracuse, 
Is  this  thy  registered  doom  ?     To  have  no  meaning 
For  the  proud  names  of  liberty^  and  virtue. 
But  as  some  regal  braggart  sets  it  down 
In  his  vocabulary  ?     And  the  sense, 
The  broad,  bright  sense  that  nature  hath  assigned  them 
In  her  infallible  volume,  interdicted 
Forever  from  thy  knowledge  ;  or  if  seen, 
And  known,  and  put  in  use,  denounced  as  treasonable, 
And  treated  thus? — No,  Dionysius,  no! 
I  am  no  traitor !     But  in  mine  allegiance 
To  my  lost  country,  I  proclaim  thee  one  ! 

Dion.     My  guards  there  !     Ho ! 

Damon.     What !  hast  thou  then  invoked 
Thy  satellites  already  ?     {Enter  Procles  and  soldiers.'] 

Dion.     Seize  him  I 

{Damon  rushes  on  Diony.nus  and  attempts  to  stab  him.] 


7rt  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Damon.     First, 
Receive  a  freeman's  legacy  ! — [He  is  intercepted  hy  Procles. 
Dionysius, 

Thy  genius  is  triumphant,  and  old  Syracuse 
Bows  her  to  the  dust  at  last ! — 'Tis  done  ;  'tis  over, 
And  we  are  slaves  forever ! 

Dion.     We  reserve 
This  proud  assassinating  demagogue, 
Who  wets  his  dagger  on  philosophy. 
For — an  example  to  his  cut-ihroat  school ! — 
The  axe,  and  not  the  sword.     Out  of  his  blood 
We'll  mix  a  cement  to  our  monarchy. 
Here  do  we  doom  him  to  a  public  death  ! 

Damon.     Death's  the  best  gift  to  one  who  never  yet 
Wished  to  survive  his  country.     Here  are  men 
Fit  for  the  life  a  tyrant  can  bestow  ! 
Let  such  as  these  live  on. 

Dion.     Hold  thou  there  • 
Lest  having  stirred  our  vengeance  into  wrath, 
It  reach  unto  those  dearer  than  thyself 
Ha !  have  I  touched  thee,  Damon  'I     Is  there  a  way 
To  level  thee  unto  the  feebleness 
Of  universal  nature  ?     What,  no  word  ? 
Come,  use  thy  time,  my  brave  philosopher  ! 
Soon  will  thy  tongue  cleave,  an  unmoving  lump 
Of  thickest  silence  and  oblivion. 
And  that  same  wide  and  sweeping  hand  of  thme, 
Used  to  the  orator's  high  attitude, 
Lie  at  thy  side  in  inutility. 
Thou  hast  few  moments  left ! 

Damon.     I  know  thee  well — 
Thou  art  wont  to  use  thy  tortures  on  the  heart 
Watching  its  agonizing  throbs,  and.  making 
A  science  of  that  fell  anatomy  ! 
These  are  thy  bloody  metaphysics — this 
Thy  barbarous  philosophy.— I  own 
Thou  hast  struck  thy  venomed  sting  into  my  soul. 
But  while  I  am  wounded,  I  despise  thee  still ! 
My  wife  !  my  child  ! — 0  Dionysius, 
Thou  shouldst  have  spared  me  that ! — Procles,  lead  on. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  77 


XXIV.— FROM  ALASGO.—Shee. 

ALA  SCO CONRAD MALINSKI RIENSKL 

Rienski.     Conrad,  you  are  warm,  and  misconceive  Mai- 
inski. 
Engaged,  as  we  are,  in  a  nobJe  cause, 
Contention  now  were  fatal  to  our  hopes. 

Coftrad.     Then  let  our  conduct,  like  our  cause,  be  noble. 
I  do  not  seek  contention,  gentlemen ! 
Nor.  will  I  turn  me  from  an  honest  course, 
To  shun  it. 

Malinski.     Conrad,  I  perceive  your  aim  ; 
'Tis  to  thwart  me,  that  you  would  shield  this  Walsingham : 
He  is  no  friend  of  yours. 

Con.     No.     If  he  were, 
And  you  had  marked  him  on  your  bloody  scroll. 
By  heaven  !  my  sword  had  soon  effaced  the  record. 

Rien.     Why,  then,  are  you  so  forward  to  defend  him  ? 

Con.     Because  I  hate  hypocrisy,  and  scorn 
The  artifice  that  covers  base  revenge. 
Walsingham's  a  brave  old  soldier,  and  deserves 
A  better  fate,  than  thus  to  be  despatched 
By  malice,  in  a  muster-roll  of  knaves. 
'  *Mal.     Malice ! 

Con.     Yes,  malice.     I  do  not  wear  a  mask, 
Nor  play  the  patriot  for  my  private  ends. 

Mai.     Dare  you  insinuate — 

Con.     No,  I  assert. 

Mai.     What  ? 

Con.     That  you  are  a  knave,  Malinski. 

Mai.     A  knave  ! 

Con.     Yes  ;  to  be  a  knave  is  promotion  for  a  fool, 
And  you  should  thank  me  for  the  title. 

Mai     Gods! 
Shall  I  bear  this  insolence  !     \^Dratvs — the  rest  interfere  to 
jnevent  him.'] 

Con.     Nay,  let  him  rage — 
I  have  a  specific  here  for  his  complaint,  [Draws.] 

That  never  failed  me. 

Rie7i.     Gentlemen,  for  shame ! 
And  Conrad,  you — the  soul  of  all  our  councils. 


78  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

What  discontents  you,  that  in  anger  thus, 
You  flash  upon  your  friends  ? 

Con.     Then,  to  be  plain, 
I  do  not  like  this  process  we  are  engaged  in. 
T  am  a  soldier,  and  in  my  way  of  trade, 
Have  seldom  been  thought  squeamish  with  my  foes, 
When  dealing  face  to  face,  and  hand  to  hand ; — 
But  in  this  cold  blood  game  of  policy, 
To  play  with  lives  like  counters,  and  to  sit 
Like  undertakers,  measuring  men  for  shrouds — 
'Tis  not  a  soldier's  office ! 

Rien.     These  are  scruples 
Fantastic  honor  starts  in  gallant  minds ; 
'Twere  weakness  to  indulge  them. — Count  Alasco  I 

[^Enter  Alasco. —  They  all  rise.'] 
Welcome,  brave  chief!  our  sanction  and  our  strength  ! 
Your  presence  breathes  new  vigor  in  our  hearts, 
And  winds  up  our  intents  at  once  to  action. 

Alasco.     Brave  friends  and  countrymen  !  why  late  I  come 
Amongst  you,  and  so  long  have  stood  aloof. 
As  one  who  seemed  indifferent,  or  adverse 
To  the  great  cause  that  moves  you,  you  have  heard 
Already  from  my  friend.     You  will  not  doubt 
My  zeal,  though  tardy.     'Tis  indeed  most  true, 
I  have  not  stirred  you  to  this  enterprise. 
I  would  not  idly  move  your  wrongs,  nor  seek 
To  fire  the  train  of  fury  in  your  hearts,  •  ' 

'Till  injuries  past  sufferance,  as  past  hope, 
Should  blaze  the  exploding  vengeance  on  your  foes, 
And  make  it  policy,  as  well  as  justice. 
Revolt's  a  desperate  game,  that  none  should  play, 
Who  feel  they've  aught  to  lose,  which  they  prize  more 
Than  liberty. 

Rien.     Noble  Alasco  !  we 
Are  resolved  to  die.  or  free  our  country. 

Alas.     0  !  brave  alternative,  and  worthy  heioes! 
\Thcy  all  draw  their  swords,  and  exclaim^\ 
Alasco  and  our  country  ! — liberty  or  death  I 

Alas.     Then,  since  your  hearts  are  wound  up  to  this  pitch, 
And,  edged  with  wrongs,  your  unsuborned  swords 
Have  leaped  their  scabbards  thus,  behold  !  at  once 
I  pledge  me  to  your  purpose. 
Yes,  from  this  moment  do  I  here  suspend 
All  private  functions — supersede  all  claims — 


SERIOUS    AND    SENT  TIME  NTAL.  79 

All  duties  of  my  station  and  degree, 

Which  mig-ht  disturb  me  in  this  glorious  course, 

And  give  myself  up  wholly  to  my  country. 

Mai.     We  will  assert  our  freedom,  and  inflict 
A  signal  vengeance 

[^Sevcral  voices  heard. ^     Yes  revenge  and  liberty ! 

Alas.     Then  let  our  liberty  be  our  revenge. — 
But  now.  my  friends  !  to  business,  for  the  time 
Is  critical. — His  late  defeat,  I  fear, 
Has  startled  Hohendahl  to  vigilance, 
And  walked  him  to  a  danger  he  despised. 
Let  each  man  muster  all  his  force,  and  march 
In  midnight  silence  to  the  appointed  ground, 
Behind  the  abbey  church.     To-morrow's  dawn 
Must  see  us  in  the  field.     If  we  surprise 
The  castle,  ere  such  succors  shall  arrive 
As  may  defy  our  strength,  we  strike  a  blow 
That  sets  wise  speculation  on  our  side. 
And  wins  at  once  the  wavering  multitude. 

Mai.     V^Y  li^aven  !  we'll  burn  the  castle  to  the  ground, 
And  in  its  ruins  bury  all  its  inmates 

Alas.     Sir  !  let  us  fight  like  men.  m  the  fair  field. 
Strike,  where  our  liberties  demand  the  blow, — 
But  spare,  where  only  cowards  would  inflict  it. 

Mai.     We  may  be  too  magnanimous,  my  lord, 
And  in  our  lenity,  betray  our  country. 

Alas.     Nay,  do  not  hold  that  maxim  !  of  all  traitors, 
The  worst  is  he  who  stains  his  country's  cause 
With  cruelty ;  making  it  hideous  in 
The  general  eye,  and  fearful  to  its  friends. 

Con.     By  Mars  !  that  touches  home.     [Aside.'} 
Then  as  our  chief, 
'Tis  fit  that  you  peruse  this  document. 

\_Takes  up  a  paper  and  presents  it  to  Alasco.'] 

Alas.     What  is  its  purport,  Conrad  ? 

Con.     0!  promotions! 
The  stafl*  of  a  new  corps  of  skeletons — 
A  kind  of  scarecrow  company  ! — to  serve 
In  shrouds  and  winding  sheets. 

Alas.     [Reading.]     What!    a   proscription? — Colonel 
Walsingham  ! 

Con.     Yes,  yes  !  you'll  find  some  friends  upon  the  list. 

Rien.     Conrad  !  your  humor  lacks  discretion  here. 

Mai.     There  is  not  a  man  among  us  but  may  plead 


80  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

A  spirit  smarting  from  some  grievous  wrong, 
To  justify  his  vengeance. 

Alas.     Sir,  what  wrong 
Procured  the  honored  name  of  Walsingham 
A  place  on  such  a  list. 

Mai.     He  is  an  Englishman  ! 

Alas.     Yes.  and  his  virtues  well  sustain  a  name 
Long  dear  to  freedom. 

Mai.     He  is  a  heretic ! 
Foe  to  our  faith,  our  freedom,  and  our  country. 
But — he  has  a  handsome  daughter. 

Alas.     Sir,  beware! 
That  lady's  name  is  n6t  to  be  profaned 
By  vulgar  mouths,  nor  mingled  with  the  sounds. 
That  from  a  ruffian's  tongue  would  stimulate 
To  murder. 

Mai.     Murder ! 

Con.     Never  flinch,  man  !  no! 

Alas.     [^Looking  r&uiicl  with  indignation^^      And  have 
you  all  combined  in  this  foul  compact  ? 
All  signed  and  sealed  this  instrument  of  blood? 
Are  we  met  here,  in  dark  conspiracy 
To  club  our  mite  of  malice  and  revenge — 
For  each  with  cunning  cowardice  to  graft 
His  private  wrongs  upon  the  public  stock, 
And  make  the  state  his  champion  1 

Rien.     Noble  Alasco! 
If  we,  through  over  zeal,  have  erred  in  this, 
You  are  our  chief,  and  may  annul  our  purpose. 

Alas.     [Tearing  the  paper. ^     Then  thus  I  use  my  privi- 
lege !  Sacred  powers ! 
I  thought  I  had  joined  me  to  a  noble  band. 

Rien.     And  such,  we  dare  assert,  our  deeds  shall  prove 
us. 

Alas.     Away !   you  will  crouch  like  slaves,  or  kill  like 
cowards. 
What!  you  have  swords?    by  heaven  you  dare  not  use 

them ! 
A  sword  is  the  brave  man's  weapon — you  mistake 
Your  instruments  ;  knives — daggers  best  become  you  I 
Heavens  !  am  I  leagued  with  cut-throats  and  assassins? 
With  wretches,  who  at  midnight  lurk  in  caves. 
To  mark  their  prey,  and  meditate  their  murders  ? 
Well,  then !  to  your  office — if  you  must  stab, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  81 

Begin  with  me ;  here — here  plant  all  your  daggers  I 
Much  rather  would  I  as  your  victim  die, 
Than  live  as  your  accomplice. 

Rien.     Spare  us,  my  lord  ! 
Nor  press  this  past  endurance  ;  your  reproof 
Has  sunk  into  our  hearts,  and  shamed  away 
All  passions  but  for  freedom  and  our  country. 

Alas.     Your  country's  freedom  !  say  your  own  discharge 
From  wholesome  rule  and  honest  industry  ! 
You  mean  immunity  for  blood  and  spoil ; — 
The  privilege  of  wild  riot  and  revenge  ; — 
The  liberty  of  lawless  depredation. 

Con.     [Adva?icing  earnestly.']     0  !  brave  friends  ! 
Or  let  me  close  this  breach,  or  perish  in  it ! 
For  'tis  a  gap  that's  wide  enough  for  ruin. 
Come  !  let  us  clear  our  honor  and  our  cause 
At  once,  from  this  foul  taint ;  let  each  man  here, 
Who  bears  a  patriot's  heart,  draw  forth  his  sword, 
And  on  that  hallowed  cross,  the  soldier  holds 
An  emblem  of  his  faith,  defense  and  service. 
Swear  to  suppress  all  promptings  of  revenge. 
All  private  interests,  ends  and  enmities  ; 
And  as  he  hopes  for  honor,  fame,  or  safety, 
Seek  alone  his  country's  weal,  and  freedom. 

[T/ie  chiefs  all  draw  tJieir  sivords^  kneel  down  and  kiss 
tlie  hilt.] 

Rien.     We  swear — and  as  our  hearts  are  in  the  oath, 
So  may  our  wishes  prosper  ! 

Alas.     [Kneels  also.]     Record  it,  heaven  ! 
And  in  a  cause  so  just,  vouchsafe  thy  guidance. 

[They  all  rise.] 
This  solemn  sanction,  Conrad,  reassures  me. 
Now,  once  again,  I  pledge  me  to  your  fortunes. 
My  friends,  your  hands  ! 

Whate'er  of  comment  harsh,  in  heat  has  passed, 
To  chafe,  or  wound  one  generous  spirit  here. 
Your  candor,  sirs   will  in  its  cause  excuse. 

Rien.     The  fault  is  ours — we  own  it.  and  our  swords 
To-morrow  shall  redeem  it  on  the  foe. 

Alas.     Then  to  our  work  like  men  who  are  fit  for  liberty  ? 
Fierce  in  the  field  as  tigers  for  our  rights, 
But  when  the  sword  is  sheathed,  the  friends  of  peace, 
And  firm  for  law  and  justice. 
E 


82  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


XXV.— FROM  JULIUS  CMS AR.-^Shakspeare. 

BRUTUS CASSIUS. 

Tent  Scene. 

Cassius.     That  you  have  wronged  me,  doth  appear  in 
this: 
You  have  condemned  and  noted  Lucius  Pella 
For  taking  bribes  here  of  the  Sardinians : 
Wherein  my  letter  (praying  on  his  side 
Because  I  knew  the  man)  was  slighted  of. 

Brutus.     You  wronged  yourself,  to  write  in  such  a  case. 

Cas.     At  such  a  time  as  this  it  is  not  meet 
That  every  nice  offense  should  bear  its  comment. 

B?'u.     Yet  let  me  tell  you,  Cassius,  you  yourself 
Are  much  condemned  to  have  an  itching  palm ; 
To  sell  and  mart  your  offices  for  gold, 
To  undeservers. 

Cas.     I  an  itching  palm  ? 
You  know  that  you  are  Brutus  that  speak  this, 
Or,  by  the  gods,  this  speech  were  else  your  last. 

Bru.     The  name  of  Cassius  honors  this  corruption, 
And  chastisement  doth  therefore  hide  its  head. 

Cas.     Chastisement ! — 

Bru.     Remember  March,  the  ides  of  March  remember ! 
Did  not  great  Julius  bleed  for  justice'  sake? 
What  villain  touched  his  body,  that  did  stab. 
And  not  for  justice  ?     What,  shall  one  of  us, 
That  struck  the  foremost  man  of  all  this  world, 
But  for  supporting  robbers ;  shall  we  now 
Contaminate  our  fingers  with  base  bribes? 
And  sell  the  mighty  meed  of  our  large  honors 
For  so  much  trash  as  may  be  grasped  thus? 
I  had  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon, 
Than  such  a  Roman. 

Cas.     Brutus,  bay  not  me  : 
I'll  not  endure  it :  you  forget  yourself, 
To  hedge  me  in  ;  I  am  a  soldier,  I, 
Older  in  practice,  abler  than  yourself 
To  make  conditions. 
•    Bru      Go  to :  you  are  not,  Cassius. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMEHTAL.  83 

Cas.     I  am. 

Bru.     I  say  you  are  not. 

Cas.     Urge  me  no  more :  I  shall  forget  myself — 
Have  mind  upon  your  health — tempt  me  no  farther. 

Bru.     Away,  slight  man  ! 

Cas.     Is  it  possible? 

Bru.     Hear  me.  for  I  will  speak. 
Must  I  give  way  and  room  to  your  rash  choler? 
Shall  I  be  frightened  when  a  mad  man  stares  ? 

Cas.     0  gods  !  ye  gods  !  must  I  endure  all  this? 

Bru.     All  this  !  ay,  more.     Fret  till  your  proud  heart 
break ! 
Go,  tell  your  slaves  how  choleric  you  are, 
And  make  your  bondmen  tremble.     Must  I  budge  ? 
Must  I  observe  you  ?     Must  I  stand  and  crouch 
Under  your  testy  humor?     By  the  gods. 
You  shall  digest  the  venom  of  your  spleen. 
Though  it  do  split  you :  for,  from  this  day  forth, 
I'll  use  you  for  my  mirth,  yea,  for  my  laughter, 
When  you  are  waspish. 

Cas.     Is  it  come  to  this  ? 

Bru.     You  say,  you  are  a  better  soldier  : 
Let  it  appear  so.;  make  your  vaunting  true, 
And  it  shall  please  me  well.     For  mine  own  part, 
I  shall  be  glad  to  learn  of  noble  men. 

Cas.     You  wrong  me  every  way — you  wrong  mc,  Brutus; 
I  said  an  elder  soldier,  not  a  better ; 
Did  I  say  better  ?  ^ 

Bru.     If  you  difl,  I  care  not. 

Cas.    When  Caesar  lived,  he  durst  not  thus  have  moved 
me. 

Bru.     Peace,  peace;   you   durst  not  so  have   tempted 
him. 

Cas.     I  durst  not ! 

Bru.     No. 

Cas.     What !  durst  not  tempt  him  ? 

Bru.  "  For  your  life  you  durst  not. 

Cas.     Do  not  presume  too  much  upon  my  love ; 
I  may  do  that  I  shall  be  sorry  for. 

Bru.     You  have  done  that  you  should  be  sorry  for. 
There  is  no  terror,  Cassius,  in  your  threats ; 
For  I  am  armed  so  strong  in  honesty, 
That  they  pass  by  me  as  the  idle  wind, 
Which  I  respect  not.     I  did  send  to  you 


84  NEW    SCHOOl.    DIALOGUES. 

For  certain  sums  of  gold,  which  you  denied  me ; 

For  I  can  raise  no  money  by  vile  means. 

By  heaven,  I  had  rather  coin  my  heart, 

And  drop  my  blood  for  drachmas,  than  to  wring 

From  the  hard  hands  of  peasants  their  vile  trash 

By  any  indirection.     I  did  send 

To  you  for  gold  to  pay  my  legions, 

Which  you  denied  me  :  was  that  done  like  Cassius? 

Should  I  have  answered  Caius  Cassius  so  ? 

When  Marcus  Brutus  grows  so  covetous, 

To  lock  such  rascal  counters  from  his  friends, 

Be  ready,  gods,  with  all  your  thunder-bolts  ! 

Dash  him  to  pieces  ! 

Cas.     I  denied  you  not. 

Bru.     You  did. 

Cas.     I  did  not — he  was  but  a  fool 
That  brought  my  answer  back.    Brutus  hath  rived  my  heart. 
A  friend  should  bear  a  friend's  infirmities ; 
But  Brutus  makes  mine  greater  than  they  are. 

Bru.     I  do  not.     Still  you  practice  them  on  me. 

Cas.     You  love  me  not. 

Bru.     I  do  not  like  your  faults. 

Cas.     A  friendly  eye  could  never  see  such  faults. 

Bru.     A  flatterer's  would  not,  though  they  do  appear 
As  huge  as  high  Olympus. 

Cas.     Come,  Antony,  and  young  Octavius,  come  ! 
Revenge  yourselves  alone  on  Cassius, 
For  Cassius  is  a-weary  of  the  world  ; 
Hated  by  one  he  loves ;  braved  by  his  brother  ; 
Checked  like  a  bondman  ;  all  his  faults  observed, 
Set  in  a  note-book,  learned  and  conned  by  rote. 
To  cast  into  my  teeth.     0  !  I  could  weep 
My  spirit  from  mine  eyes ! — There  is  my  dagger 
And  here  my  naked  breast — within,  a  heart 
Dearer  than  Plutus'  mine,  richer  than  gold  ! 
If  that  thou  be'st  a  Roman,  take  it  forth. 
I  that  denied  thee  gold,  will  give  my  heart : 
Strike  as  thou  didst  at  Csesar ;  for  I  know, 
When  thou  didst  hate  him  worst,  thou  lovedst  him  better 
Than  ever  thou  lovedst  Cassius. 

Bru.     Sheathe  your  dagger  ; 
Be  angry  when  you  will  it  shall  have  scope , 
Do  what  you  will,  dishonor  shall  be  humor. 
0,  Cassius  !  you  are  yoked  with  a  lamb, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  85 

That  carries  anger,  as  the  flint  bears  fire ; 
Which,  much  enforced,  shows  a  hasty  spark, 
And  straight  is  cold  again. 

Cas.     Hath  Cassius  lived 
To  be  but  mirth  and  laughter  to  his  Brutus, 
When  grief,  and  blood  ill-tempered,  vexeth  him  ? 

B7'u.     AVhen  I  spoke  that,  I  was  ill  tempered  too. 

Cas.     Do  you  confess  so  much  ?     Give  me  your  hand. 

Bru.     And  my  heart  too. 

Cas      O,  Brutus ! 

Bru.     What's  the  matter  ? 

Cas.     Have  you  not  love  enough  to  bear  with  me, 
When  that  rash  humor  which  my  mother  gave  me, 
Makes  me  forgetful  1 

Bru.     Yes.  Cassius,  and  from  henceforth. 
When  you  are  over-earnest  vv^ith  your  Brutus, 
He'll  think  your  mother  chides,  and  leave  you  so. 


XXVI— FROM  CATO.- Addison. 

CATO FORTIUS LUCIUS JUBA MARCIA. 

Scene. — A  Chamber. 

[Cato,  solus,  sitting  in  a  thoughtful  posture ;  in  his  hand^ 
Platds  book  on  the  Immortality  of  the  Soul ;  a  drawn 
sword  on  the  table  by  him.] 
Cato.     It  must  be  so — Plato,  thou  reasonest  well — 

Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond  desire, 

This  longing  after  immortality  ? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  this  inward  horror, 

Of  falling  into  naught !     Why  shrinks  the  soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction  ? 

'Tis  the  divinity  that  stirs  within  us  ;  . 

'Tis  heaven  itself  that  points  out  an  hereafter, 

And  intimates  eternity  to  man. 

Eternity  ?  thou  pleasing,  dreadful  thought ! 

Through  what  variety  of  untried  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must  we  pass  ? 

6 


36  ,  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  me : 
But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness  rest  upon  it. 
Here  will  I  hold.     If  there's  a  power  above  us, 
(And  that  theVe  is,  all  Nature  cries  aloud 
Through  all  her  works )  he  must  delight  in  virtue ; 
And  that  which  he  delights  in  must  be  happy ; 
But  when,  or  where  ? — This  world  was  made  for  Caesar. 
I'm  weary  of  conjectures  : — this  must  end  them. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  his  sic>07'd.] 
Thus  am  I  doubly  armed  :  my  death  and  life, 
My  bane  and  antidote,  are  both  before  me. 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end ; 
But  this  informs  me  I  shall  never  die. 
The  soul,  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At  the  drawn  dagger,  and  defies  its  point. 
The  stars  shall  fade  away,  the  sun  himself 
Grow  dim  with  age,  and  Nature  sink  in  years, 
But  thou  shalt  flourish  in  immortal  youth, 
Unhurt  amidst  the  war  of  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crash  of  worlds. 
What  means  this  heaviness  that  hangs  upon  me  ? 
This  lethargy  that  creeps  through  all  my  senses  ? 
Nature,  oppressed  and  harassed  out  with  care, 
Sinks  down  to  rest.     This  once  I'll  favor  her, 
That  my  awakened  soul  may  take  her  flight. 
Renewed  with  all  her  strength,  and  fresh  with  life, 
An  ofl^ering  fit  for  heaven.     Let  guilt  or  fear 
Disturb  man's  rest,  Cato  knows  neither  of  them, 
Indiflerent  in  his  choice,  to  sleep  or  die. 

[JEnter  Fortius.] 
But,  ha  !  who's  this  ?  my  son  !     Why  this  intrusion  ? 
Were  not  my  orders  that  I  would  be  priv^-te  ? 
Why  am  I  disobeyed  ? 

Fortius.     Alas,  my  father  ! 
What  means  this  sword,  this  instrunjent  of  death  "2 
Let  me  convey  it  hence. 

Cato.     Bash  youth,  forbear. 

For.     Oh.  let  the  prayers,  the  entreaties  of  your  frienas, 
Their  tears,  their  common  danger,  wrest  it  from  you. 

Cato.     Wouldst  thou  betray  me?     Wouldst  thou  give 
me  up 
A  slave,  a  captive  into  Caesar's  hands  ? 
Retire  and  learn  obedience  to  a  father, 
Or  know,  young  man — — 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL. 


87 


For.     Look  not  thus  sternly  on  me ; 
You  know,  I'd  rather  die  than  disobey  you. 


iCDO-CTj 


Cato.     'Tis  well !  again  I'm  master  of  myself. 
Now,  Caesar,  let  thy  troops  beset  our  gates, 
And  bar  each  avenue  ;  thy  gathering  fleets 
O'erspread  the  sea,  and  stop  up  every  port, 
Cato  shall  open  to  himself  a  passage, 
And  mock  thy  hopes. 

Po)-.     [Kneeling.]     Oh,  sir,  forgive  your  son, 
Whose  grief  hangs  heavy  on  him.     0.  my  father ! 
How  am  I  sure  it  is  not  the  last  time 
I  e'er  shall  call  you  so?     Be  not  displeased, 
Oh,  be  not  angry  with  me  whilst  I  weep, 
And,  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart,  beseech  you 
To  quit  the  dreadful  purpose  of  your  soul ! 

Cato.     Thou  hast  been  ever  good  and  dutiful. 

[E7nbracing  him.  ] 
Weep  not,  my  son,  all  will  be  well  again ; 
The  righteous  gods,  whom  I  have  sought  to  please, 
Will  succor  Cato,  and  preserve  his  children. 

For.     Your  words  give  comfort  to  my  drooping  heart. 

Cato.     Fortius,  thou  mayst  rely  upon  my  conduct. 
Thy  father  will  not  act  what  misbecomes  him. 
But  go,  my  son.  and  see  if  aught  be  wanting 
Among  thy  father's  friends  ;  see  them  embarked, 
And  tell  me  if  the  winds  and  seas  befriend  them. 
My  soul  is  quite,  weighed  down  with  care,  and- asks 
The  soft  refreshment  of  a  moment's  sleep. 


88  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Por.     My  thoughts  are  more  at  ease,  my  heart  revives. 

\^Exit  Cato.] 
[Enter  Marcia.~\ 

Oh,  Marcia  !  Oh,  my  sister !  still  there's  hope 
Our  father  will  not  cast  away  a  life 
So  needful  to  us  all,  and  to  his  country. 
He  is  retired  to  rest,  and  seems  to  cherish 
Thoughts  full  of  peace.     He  has  despatched  me  hence 
With  orders  that  bespeak  a  mind  composed, 
And  studious  for  the  safety  of  his  friends. 
Marcia,  take  care  that  none  disturb  his  slumbers.       [Extt.] 

Marcia.     Oh,  ye  immortal  powers  that  guard  the  just, 
Watch  round  his  couch,  and  soften  his  repose ; 
Banish  his  sorrows,  and  becalm  his  soul 
With  easy  dreams ;  remember  all  his  virtues, 
And  show  mankind  that  goodness  is  your  care ! 
[Enter  Lucius.'} 

Luc.     Sweet  are  the  slumbers  of  the  virtuous  man  ! 
Oh,  Marcia,  I  have  seen  thy  godlike  father  ; 
Some  power  invisible  supports  his  soul, 
And  bears  it  up  in  all  its  wonted  greatness. 
A  kind,  refreshing  sleep  is  fallen  upon  him : 
I  saw  him  stretched  at  ease,  his  fancy  lost 
In  pleasing  dreams ;  as  I  drew  near  his  couch. 
He  smiled,  and  cried,  Caesar,  thou  canst  not  hurt  me. 

Marcia.  His  mind  still  labors  with  some  dreadful  thought. 
[Enter  Fortius.} 

Por.     Oh,  sight  of  woe  ! 
Oh,  Marcia,  what  we  feared  is  come  to  pass ! 
Cato  has  fallen  upon  his  sword 

Luc.     Oh,  Fortius, 
Hide  all  the  honors  of  thy  mournful  tale. 
And  let  us  guess  the  rest. 

Por.     I've  raised  him  up, 
And  placed  him  in  his  chair ;  where,  pale  and  faint, 
He  gasps  f^r  breath,  and,  as  his  life  flows  from  him, 
Demands  to  see  his  friends.     His  servants,  weeping, 
Obsequious  to  his  order  bear  him  hither  ! 

Marcia.     Oh,  heaven  !  assist  me  in  this  dreadful  hour, 
To  pay  the  last  sad  duties  to  my  father ! 

[Cato  brought  on^  in  a  chair.} 
.   Juba.     These  are  thy  triumphs,  thy  exploits,  0  Caesar  ! 

Lux:.     Now  is  Home  fallen  indeed  ! 

Cato.     Here  set  me  down 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  89 

Fortius,  come  near  me. — Are  my  friends  embarked  ? 
Can  anything  be  thought  of  for  their  service? 

Whilst  I  yet  live,  let  me  not  live  in  vain 

Oh,  bend  me  forward  ! — Oh,  when  shall  I  get  loose 

From  this  vain  world,  the  abode  of  guilt  and  sorrow  ? 

And  yet,  methinks,  a  beam  of  light  breaks  in 

On  my  departing  soul.     Alas  !  I  fear 

I've  been  too  hasty.     Oh,  ye  powers,  that  search 

The  heart  of  man,  and  weigh  his  inmost  thoughts. 

If  I  have  done  amiss,  impute  it  not — 

The  best  may  err,  but  you  are  good,  and — Oh  !  [Z)^.;.'! 

Luc.     There  fled  the  greatest  soul  that  ever  warmed 
A  Roman  breast.     Oh,  Cato  !     Oh,  my  friend  ! 
Thy  will  shall  be  religiously  observed. 
But  let  us  bear  this  awful  corpse  to  Caesar, 
And  lay  it  in  his  sight,  that  it  may  stand 
A  fence  betwixt  us  and  the  victor's  wrath  : 
Cato,  though  dead,  shall  still  protect  his  friends,     [^Exeunt.] 


XXVII. -FROM  ALFRED  THE  GREAT— Thompson. 

ALFRED DEVON. 

Alfred.     How  long,  0  ever-gracious  Heaven,  how  long 
Shall  war  thus  desolate  this  prostrate  land  ? 
All,  all  is  lost — and  Alfred  lives  to  tell  it ! 
His  cities  laid  in  dust !  his  subjects  slaughtered, 
Or  into  slaves  debased  ;   the  murderous  foe 
Proud  and  exulting  in  the  general  shame  ! 
Are  these  things  so  ?  and  he  without  the  means 
Of  great  revenge !  cast  down  below  the  hope 
Of  succoring  those  he  weeps  for !  0  despair  ! 
O  grief  of  griefs ! 

Devon.     Old  as  I  am,  my  liege. 
In  rough  war  hardened,  and  with  death  familiar, 
These  eyes  have  long  forgot  to  melt  with  softness : 
But  0,  my  gracious  master,  they  have  seen — 
All  pitying  Heaven  ! — such  sights  of  ruthless  rage, 
Of  total  desolation  ! — 

Alfred.     0,  my  people  ! 
0,  ruined  England  !     Devon,  those  were  blest 


90  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Who  died  before  this  time.     Ha!  and  those  robbers, 

That  violate  .the  sanctity  of  leagues, 

The  reverend  seal  of  oaths  ;  that  basely  broke, 

Like  mighty  ruffians  on  the  hour  of  peace, 

And  stole  a  victory  from  men  unarmed. 

Those  Danes  enjoy  their  crimes  !     Dread  vengeance  !  son 

Of  power  and  justice!  come,  arrayed  in  terrors, 

Thy  garments  red  with  blood,  thy  keen  sword  drawn, 

0  come,  and  on  the  heads  of  faithless  men 
Pour  ample  retribution  I  men  whose  triumph 
Upbraids  eternal  justice !     But  no  more  : 
Submission  is  Heaven's  due.     I  will  not  launch 
Into  the  dark  abyss  where  thought  must  drown. 
Proceed,  my  lord  ;  on  with  the  mournful  tale 
My  griefs  broke  off 

Devon.     From  yonder  heath-crowned  hill, 
This  island's  eastern  point,  where  in  one  stream 
The  Thone  and  Parrot  roll  their  blending  waves, 

1  looked,  and  saw  the  progress  of  the  foe, 
As  of  some  tempest,  some  devouring  fire, 
That  ruins  without  mercy  where  it  spreads 
The  riches  of  the  year  ;  the  golden  grain 

That  liberal  crowned  our  plains,  lies  trampled  wide 

By  hostile  feet,  or  rooted  up  ;  and  waste 

Deforms  the  broad  highway.     From  space  to  space, 

Far  as  my  straining  eye  could  shoot  its  beam, 

Trees,  cottages,  and  castles,  smoke  to  heaven 

In  one  ascending  cloud.     But  oh,  for  pity  ! 

That  way,  my  lord,  where  yonder  verdant  height 

Declining  slides  into  a  fruitful  vale. 

Unsightly  now,  and  bare,  a  few  poor  hinds, 

Gray-haired  and  thinly  clad,  stood  and  beheld 

The  common  ravage  ;  motionless  and  mute, 

With  hands  to  Heaven  upraised,  they  stood  and  wept — 

My  tears  attended  theirs. 

Alfred.     If  this  sad  sight 
Could  pain  thee  to  such  anguish,  what  must  I,  .  * 
Their  king  and  parent,  feel?     It  is  a  torment 
Beyond  their  strength  of  patience  to  endure. 
Why  end  I  not  at  once  this  wretched  being? 
The  means  are  in  my  hand.     But  shall  a  prince 
Thus  poorly  shroud  him  in  the  grave,  from  pain 
And  sense  of  shame?     The  madman,  nay,  the  coward, 
Has  often  dared  the  same.     A  monarch  holds 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  91 

His  life  in  trust  for  others.     I  will  live  then ; 
Let  Heaven  dispose  the  rest. 

Devon.     Thrice  noble  Alfred, 
And  England's  only  hope,  whose  virtues  raise 
Our  frail  mortality,  our  human  dust, 
Up  to  angelic  splendor  and  perfection  ; 
With  you  to  bear  the  worst  of  ills,  the  spoil 
Of  wasteful  war,  the  loss  of  life  or  freedom, 
Is  happiness,  is  glory. 

Alfred.     Ah,  look  round  thee  : 
That  mud-built  cottage  is  thy  sovereign's  palace. 
Yon  hind,  whose  daily  toil  is  all  his  wealth, 
Lodges  and  feeds  him.     Are  these  times  for  flattery, 
Or  call  it  praise  ?     Such  gaudy  attributes 
Would  misbecome  our  best  and  proudest  fortunes. 
But  what  are  mine  ?  what  is  this  high  praised  Alfred  ? 
Among  ten  thousand  wretches  most  undone. 
That  prince  who  sees  his  country  laid  in  ruins, 
His  subjects  perishing  beneath  the  sword 
Of  foreign  rage,  who  sees,  and  cannot  save  them, 
Is  but  supreme  in  misery. 

Devon.     My  liege, 
Who  has  not  known  ill  fortune,  never  knew 
Himself  or  his  own  virtue.     Be  of  comfort ; 
We  can  but  die  at  last.     Till  that  hour  comes, 
Let  nobler  anger  keep  our  hopes  alive. 
A  sudden  thought,  as  if  from  Heaven  inspired, 
Darts  on  my  soul.     Yon  castle  is  still  ours, 
Though  close  begirt  and  shaken  by  the  Danes. 
In  this  disguise,  my  chance  of  passing  on, 
Of  entering  there  unknown,  is  promising, 
And  wears  a  lucky  face.     'Tis  our  last  stake, 
And  I  will  play  it  like  a  man,  whose  life. 
Whose  honor  hangs  upon  a  single  cast. 
Meanwhile,  my  lord  — 

Alfred.     Ha  !  Devon,  thou  hast  roused 
My  slumbering  virtue.     I  applaud  thy  thought. 
The  praise  of  this  brave  daring  shall  be  thine; 
The  danger  shall  be  common.     We  will  both 
Straight  tempt  the  Danish  camp,  and  gain  this  fort, 
To  animate  our  brothers  of  the  war. 
Those  Englishmen  who  yet  deserve  that  name. 
And  here.  Eternal  Justice!  if  my  life 
Can  make  atonement  for  them,  King  of  kings  ! 


9*2  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Accept  thy  willing  victim.     On  my  head 

Be  all  their  woes.     To  them  be  grace  and  mercy. 

Come  on,  my  noble  friend.  * 

Devon.     Ah,  good  my  liege  ! 
What  fits  a  private  valor,  and  might  grace 
The  simple  soldier's  courage,  would  proclaim 
His  general's  rashness.     You  are  England's  king ; 
Your  infant  children,  and  your  much  loved  queen; 
Nay,  more,  the  pubhc  weal,  ten  thousand  souls. 
Whose  hope  you  are,  whose  all  depends  on  you, 
Forbid  this  enterprise.     'Tis  nobler  virtue 
To  check  this  ardor,  to  reserve  your  sword 
For  some  great  day  of  known  and  high  report ; 
That  to  your  country,  to  the  judging  world, 
Shall  satisfy  all  hazards  you  may  run. 
This  trial  suits  but  me. 

Alfred.     Well  go,  my  friend  ; 
If  thou  shalt  prosper,  thou  wilt  call  me  hence 
To  head  my  people,  from  their  fears  recovered. 
May  that  good  angel  who  inspired  thy  thought, 
Throw  round  thy  steps  a  veil  of  cloudy  air, 
That  thou  mayst  walk  invisible  and  safe.         [ExitDevon.^ 
He's  gone — and  now,  without  a  friend  to  aid  me, 
I  stand  alone,  abandoned  to  the  gloom 
Of  my  sad  thoughts.     Said  I  without  a  friend  ? 
Oh,  blasphemous  distrust !  have  I  not  thee. 
All  powerful  Friend  and  Guardian  of  the  righteous; 
Have  I  not  thee  to  aid  me?     Let  that  thought 
Support  my  drooping  soul.  [Exit^ 


Scene  Second. 
ALFRED DE  VON. 

Alfred.     My  friend  returned  ! 
O  welcome,  welcome  !  but  what  happy  tidings 
Smile  in  thy  cheerful  countenance  ? 

Devon.     My  liege. 
Your  troops  have  been  successful. — But  to  Heaven 
Ascend  the  praise  !     For  sure  the  event  exceeds 
The  hand  of  man. 

Alfred.     How  was  it,  noble  Devon  ? 

Devon.     You  know  my  castle  is  not  hence  far  distant. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  93 

Thither  I  sped,  and,  in  a  Danish  habit, 
The  trenches  passing,  by  a  secret  way- 
Known  to  myself  alone,  emerged  at  once 
Amid  my  joyful  soldiers.     There  I  found 
A  generous  few,  the  veteran  hardy  gleanings 
Of  many  a  hapless  fight.     They  with  a  fierce 
Heroic  fire  inspirited  each  other  ; 
Resolved  on  death,  disdaining  to  survive 
Their  dearest  country.     "  If  we  fall,"  I  cried, 
"  Let  us  not  tamely  fa'l  like  cowards  ! 
No :  let  us  live — or  let  us  die,  like  men  ! 
Come  on,  my  friends  :  to  Alfred  we  will  cut 
Our  glorious  way  ;  or,  as  we  nobly  perish, 
Will  offer  to  the  genius  of  our  country 
Who'e  hecatombs  of  Danes."     As  if  one  soul 
Had  moved  them  all.  around  their  heads  they  flashed 
Their  flaming  falchions.     "  Lead  us  to  those  Danes  ! 
Our  country  ! — vengeance  !" — was  the  general  cry. 
Straight  on  the  careless  drowsy  camp  we  rushed, 
And  rapid,  as  the  flame  devours  the  stubble. 
Bore  down  the  heartless  Danes.     With  this  success 
Our  enterprise  increased.     Not  now  contented 
To  hew  a  passage  through  the  flying  herd. 
We,  unremitting,  urged  a  total  rout. 
The  valiant  Hubba  bites  the  bloody  field, 
With  twice  six  hundred  Danes  around  him  strewed. 

Alfred.     My  glorious  friend  !  this  action  has  restored 
Our  smking  country. 
But  where,  my  noble  cousin,  are  th^  rest 
Of  our  brave  troops  % 

Devon.     On  the  other  side  the  stream, 
That  half  encloses  this  retreat,  T  left  them. 
Roused  from  the  fear  with  which  it  was  congealed 
As  in  a  frost,  the  country  pours  amain. 
The  spirit  of  our  ancestors  is  up, 
The'spirit  of  the  free  !  and  with  a  voice 
That  breathes  success,  they  all  demand  their  king. 

Alfred.     Quick  let  us  join  them  and  improve  their  ardor. 
We  cannot  be  too  hasty  to  secure 
The  glances  of  occasion. 


94  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


XXVIIL— FROM  BRUTUS.— Payne. 

BRUTUS CENTURION VALERIUS TITUS COLLATINUS LIC- 

TORS GUARDS PEO  PLE . 

Scene  1. — A  Street  in  Rome. 

[Enter  Brutus  and  Collatinus,  as  consuls,  followed  by  lie- 
tors,  gulzrds,  and  peopled] 

Brutus.  You  judge  me  rightly,  friends.    The  purpled  robe, 
The  curule  chair,  the  lictor's  keen-edged  axe, 
Rejoice  not  Brutus — 'tis  his  country's  freedom  : 
When  once  that  freedom  shall  be  firmly  rooted. 
Then,  with  redoubled  pleasure,  will  your  consul 
Exchange  the  splendid  miseries  of  power, 
For  the  calm  comforts  of  a  happy  home. 
[Enter  Centurion.'] 

Centurion.     Health  to  Brutus  ! 
Shame  and  confusion  to  the  foes  of  Rome ! 

Bru.     Now,  without  preface,  soldier,  to  your  business. 

Cent.     As  I  kept  watch  at  the  Quirinal  gate. 
Ere  break  of  day,  an  armed  company 
Burst  on  a  sudden  through  the  barrier  guard, 
Pushing  their  course  for  Ardea.     Straight  alarmed, 
I  wheeled  my  cohort  round,  and  charged  them  home : 
Sharp  was  the  conflict  for  a  while,  and  doubtful, 
Till,  on  the  seizure  of  Tarquinia's  person, 
A  young  patrician 

Bru.     Hah  !  patrician  1 

Cent.     Such 
His  dress  bespoke  him,  though  to  me  unknown. 

Bru.     Proceed  ! — what  more  ? 

Cent.     The  lady  being  taken, 
This  youth,  the  life  and  leader  of  the  band. 
His  sword  high  waving  in  the  act  to  strike, 
Dropt  his  uplifted  weapon,  and  at  once 
Yielded  himself  my  prisoner.     Oh,  Valerius, 
What  have  I  said,  that  thus  the  consul  changes? 

Bru.     Why  do  you  pause?     Go  on. 

Ce7it.     Their  leader  seized. 
The  rest  surrendered.     Him.  a  settled  gloom 
Possesses  wholly  ;  nor,  as  I  believe. 
Hath  a  word  passed  his  lips,  to  all  my  questions 
Still  obstinately  shut. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  95 

Bru.     Set  him  before  us.  {Exit  Centurion.] 

Valerius.     Oh,  my  brave  friend,  horror  invades  my  heart. 

Bru.     Silence  !     Be  calm. 

Val.     I  know  thy  soul, 
A  compound  of  all  excellence,  and  pray 
The  mighty  gods  to  put  thee  to  no  trial 
Beyond  a  mortal  bearing. 

Bru.     No,  they  will  not — 
Nay,  be  secure,  they  cannot.     Pray  thee,  friend, 
Look  out,  and  if  the  worst  that  can  befall  me 
Be  verified,  turn  back. 
Thou  canst  excuse  this  weakness, 

Being  thyself  a  father.  [  Valerius  returns.] 

Since  it  must  be  so. 

Do  your  great  pleasure,  gods  !     Now,  now  it  comes  ! 
[Enter  Titus,  guarded.'] 

Titus.     My  father, — give  me  present  death,  ye  powers! 

Cent.     What  have  I  done!  art  thou  the  son  of  Brutus? 

Tit.     No — Brutus  scorns  to  father  such  a  son  ! 
Oh,  venerable  judge,  wilt  thou  not  speak? 
Turn  not  away  ;  hither  direct  thine  eyes, 
And  look  upon  this  sorrow-stricken  form. 
Then  to  thine  own  great  heart  remit  my  plea. 
And  doom  as  nature  dictates. 

Val     Peace,  you'll  anger  him — 
Be  silent  and  await !     Oh.  suffering  mercy. 
Plead  in  a  father's  heart,  and  speak  for  nature ! 

Bru.     Come  hither,  Collatinus.     The  deep  wound 
You  suffered  in  the  loss  of  your  Lucretia, 
Demanded  more  than  fortitude  to  bear : 
I  saw  your  agony — I  felt  your  woe — 

Collatinus.     You  more  than  felt  it ;  you  revenged  it  too. 

Bru.     But  ah,  my  brother  consul,  your  Lucretia 
Fell  nobly,  as  a  Roman  spirit  should. 
She  fell  a  model  of  transcendent  virtue. 

Col.     My  mind  misgives.  What  dost  thou  aim  at,  Brutus? 

Bru.     [Almost  overpowered.]     That  youth,  my  Titus,  was 
my  age's  hope ; 
I  loved  him  more  than  language  can  express ; 
I  thought  him  born  to  diguify  the  world. 

Col.     My  heart  bleeds  for  you — he  may  yet  be  saved — 

Bru.     [Fi7"mly.]     Consul,  for  Rome  I  live,  not  for  myself. 
I  dare  not  trust  my  firmness  in  this  crisis, 
Warring  against  everything  my  soul  holds  dear  ' 


96  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Therefore  return  without  me  to  the  Senate — 
[  ought  not  now  to  take  a  seat  among  them — 
Haply  my  presence  might  restrain  their  justice. 
Look  that  these  traitors  meet  their  trial  straight, 
And  then  despatch  a  messenger  to  tell  mc 
How  the  wise  fathers  have  disposed  of go ! 

Tit.     A  word  for  pity's  sake.     Before  thy  feet, 
Humbled  in  soul,  thy  son  and  prisoner  kneels. 
Love  is  my  plea  ;  a  father  is  my  judge  ; 
Nature  my  advocate !     I  can  no  more : 
If  these  will  not  appease  a  parent's  heart, 
Strike  through  them  all,  and  lodge  thy  vengeance  here! 

Bru.     Break  off!     I  will  not,  cannot  hear  thee  further. 
The  affliction  nature  hath  imposed  on  Brutus, 
Brutus  will  suffer  as  he  may. 
Lictors,  secure  your  prisoner.     Point  your  axes 
To  the  Senate.     On  ! 

[Exit  all  but  Brutus.     After  a  pause  of  restless  agony ^"l 
Like  a  lost,  guilty  wretch,  I  look  around 
And  start  at  every  footstep,  lest  it  bring 
The  fatal  news  of  my  poor  son's  conviction  ! 
Oh,  Rome,  thou  little  knowest — no  more.     It  comes. 
[Enter  Valerius.'] 

Val.     My  friend,  the  Senate  have  to  thee  transferred 
The  right  of  judgment  on  thy  son's  offense, 

Bru.     To  me  ? 

Val.     To  thee  alone. 

Bru.     What  of  the  rest? 

Val.     Their  sentence  is  already  passed : 
Even  now,  perhaps,  the  lictor's  dreaded  hand 
Cuts  off  their  forfeit  lives. 

Bru.     Sayst  thou  the  Senate  have  to  me  referred 
The  fate  of  Titus  ? 

Val.     Such  is  their  sovereign  will. 
They  think  you  merit  this  distinguished  honor, 
A  father's  grief  deserves  to  be  revered : 
Rome  will  approve  whatever  you  decree. 

Bru.     And  is  his  guilt  established  beyond  doubt? 

Val.     Too  clearly. 

Bru.     [  With  a  burst  of  tears. \     Oh,  ye  gods  !  ye  gods  I 
[Collecting  himself .]     Valerius! 

Val.     What  wouldst  thou,  noble  Roman  ? 

Bru.    'Tis  said  thou  hast  pulled  down  thine  house,  Valerius, 
The  stately  pile  that  with  such  cost  was  reared. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  97 

Vol,     I  have;  but  what  doth  Brutus  thence  infer? 

Bru.     It  was  a  gopdly  structure  ;  I  remember 
How  fondly  you  surveyed  its  rising  grandeur. 
With  what  a — fatherly — delight  you  summoned 
Each  grace  and  ornament,  that  might  enrich 
The — child — of  your  creation — till  it  swelled 
To  an  imperial  size,  and  overpeered 
The  petty  citizens,  that  humbly  dwelt 
Under  its  lofty  walls,  in  huts  and  hovels. 
Like  emmets  at  the  foot  of  towering  Etna : 
Then,  noble  Koman,  then,  with  patriot  zeal, 
Dear  as  it  was.  and  valued,  you  condemned 
And  leveled  the  proud  pile  ;  and,  in  return, 
Were  by  your  grateful  countrymen  surnamed, 
And  shall  to  all  posterity  descend, — 
Poplicola. 

Vol.     Yes,  Brutus,  I  conceive 
The  awful  aim  and  drift  of  thy  discourse — 
But  I  conjure  thee,  pause  !  thou  art  a  father. 

Bru.     I  am  a  Roman  consul.     What,  my  friend, 
Shall  no  one  but  Valerius  love  his  country 
Dearer  than  house,  or  property,  or  children  % 
Now,  follow  me ; — and  in  the  face  of  heaven — 
See,  see,  good  Valerius,  if  Brutus 
Feel  not  for  Rome  as  warmly  as  Poplicola.         \Exeuni.\ 

Scene  2. — Interior  of  a  Temple. 

\Brutu8  seated  on  tJie  tribunal.'] 
Bru.     Romans,  the  blood  which  hath  been  shed  this  day, 
Hath  been  shed  wisely.     Traitors,  who  conspire 
Against  mature  societies,  may  urge 
Their  acts  as  bold  and  daring  ;  and  though  villains, 
Yet  they  are  manly  villains — but  to  stab 
The  cradled  innocent^  as  these  have  done, — 
To  strike  their  country  in  the  mother-pangs. 
And  direct  the  dagger 

To  freedom's  infant  throat, — is  a  deed  so  black. 
That  my  foiled  tongiie  refuses  it  a  name.  [A  pause.] 

There  is  one  criminal  still  left  for  judgment. 
Let  him  approach.  [Enter  Titus^  guarded.] 

Pris-on-er — [The    voice   of  Brutus  falters.^  and  is  cJwked, 

and  he  exclaims  with  violent  emotion^] 
Romans  !  forgive  this  agony  of  grief — 
F  y 


98  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

My  heart  is  bursting — nature  must  have  way — 
[  will  perform  all  that  a  Roman  should — 
I  cannot  feel  less  than  a  father  ought : 

[  He  becomes  more  calm.] 
Well,  Titus,  speak — how  is  it  with  thee  now  ? 
Tell  me,  my  son.  art  thou  prepared  to  die  ? 

Til.     Father  !  I  call  the  powers  of  heaven  to  witness, 
Titus  dares  die,  when  you  have  so  decreed. 
The  gods  will  have  me. 

Brii.     They  will,  my  Titus  ; 
Nor  heaven,  nor  earth  can  have  it  otherwise. 
The  violated  genius  of  thy  country 
Rears  its  sad  head,  and  passes  sentence  on  thee  ! 
It  seems  as  if  thy  fate  were  pre-ordained 
To  fix  the  reeling  spirits  of  the  people, 
And  settle  the  loose  liberty  of  Rome. 
'Tis  fixed  ; — oh,  therefore,  let  not  fancy  cheat  thee  ! 
So  fixed  thy  death,  that  'tis  not  in  the  power 
Of  mortal  man  to  save  thee  from  the  axe 

2\t.     The  axe !  Oh,  heavens  ! — then  must  I  fall  so  basely 
What,  shall  I  perish  like  a  common  felon  ? 

Bru.     How  else  do  traitors  suffer?     Nay,  Titus,  more  : 
I  must  myself  behold  thee  meet  this  shame  of  death, — 
With  all  thy  hopes  and  all  thy  youth  upon  thee, — 
See  thy  head  taken  by  the  common  axe. 
All, — if  the  gods  can  hold  me  to  my  purpose, — 
Without  a  groan,  without  one  pitying  tear. 

Tit.     Die  like  a  felon  ? — ha  !  a  common  felon  ! —    ^ 
But  I  deserve  it  all : — yet  here  I  fail : 
This  ignominy  quite  unmans  me  ! 
Oh,  Brutus,  Brutus  !  must  I  call  you  father, 
Yet  have  no  token  of  your  tenderness. 
No  sign  of  mercy?  not  even  leave  to  fall 
As  noble  Romans  fall,  by  my  own  sword  ? 
Father,  why  should  you  make  my  heart  suspect 
That-all  your  late  compassion  was  dissembled? 
How  can  I  think  that  you  did  ever  love  me? 

Bru.     Think  that  I  love  thee  by  my  present  passion, 
By  these  unmanly  tears,  these  earthquakes  here, 
These  sighs,  that  strain  the  very  strings  of  life ; 
Let  these  convince  you  that  no  other  cause 
Could  force  a  father  thus  to  wrong  his  nature. 

Tit.     Oh,  hold,  thou  violated  majesty ! 
I  now  submit  with  calmness  to  my  fate. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL. 


99 


Come  forth,  ye  executioners  of  justice — 

Come,  take  my  life, — and  give  it  to  my  country  ! 

Bru.     Embrace  thy  wretched  father.     May  the  gods 
Arm  thee  with  patience  in  this  awful  hour. 
The  sovereign  magistrate  of  injured  Rome, 
Bound  by  h:s  high  authority,  condemns 
A  crime  thy  father's  bleeding  heart  forgives. 
Go — meet  thy  death  with  a  more  manly  courage 
Than  grief  now  suffers  me  to  show  in  parting  ; 
And,  while  she  punishes,  let  Rome  admire  thee  ! 
No  more  !     Farewell !  eternally  farewell ! 

Tit.     Oh,  Brutus!  oh,  my  father! 
Farewell,  forever. 

Bru.     Forever. 
Lictors,  attend  ! — conduct  your  prisoner  forth  ! 

Val.     \^Rapidly  and  anxiously. \     Whither? 

[All  the  characters  bending  forward  in  great  anxiety^ 

Bru.     To  death  I     \All  start.']     When  you  do  reach  the 
spot 
My  hand  shall  wave  the  signal  for  the  act. 
Then  let  the  trumpet's  sound  proclaim  it  done  ! 

[Titus  is  conducted  out  by  the  lictors.] 
Poor  youth  !  thy  pilgrimage  is  at  an  end  ! 
A  few  sad  steps  have  brought  thee  to  the  brink 
Of  that  tremendous  precipice,  whose  depth 
No  thought  of  man  can  fathom.     Justice  now 
Demands  her  victim  !     A  little  moment 
And  I  am  childless. — One  effort,  and  'tis  past — 

[  Waves  his  hand.] 
Justice  is  satisfied,  and  Rome  is  free.  [Brutus  falls^ 


Son  of  Clarence.     W^hv  do  you  look  on  us  and  shake  your  head, 
And  call  IIS  orphans,  wretches,  cast-aways, 
If  that  our  noble  father  be  alivo  V — Richard  J  J  J. 


100  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


XXIX.— FROM  THE  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO.— J/rs.  Hemans. 

MONTALBA PROCIDA RAIMOND FIRST    SICILIAN SECOND 

SICILIAN GUIDO SICILIANS. 

Scene. — A  chapel,  and  a  monument,  on  which  is  laid  a  s-word. 

Montalba.     And  know  you  not  my  story  "2 

Frocida.     In  the  lands 
Where  I  have  been  a  wanderer,  your  deep  wrongs 
Were  numbered  with  our  country's  ;  but  the  tale 
Came  only  in  faint  echoes  to  mine  ear. 
I  would  fain  hear  it  now. 

Mont.     Oh !  what  lovely  dreams 
Rose  on  my  spirit,  when,  after  long  years 
Of  battle  and  captivity,  I  spurred 

My  good  steed  homewards.     There  were  tears  and  smiles, 
But  all  of  joy!     And  there  were  bounding  steps, 
And  clinging  arms,  whose  passionate  clasp  of  love 
Doth  twine  so  fondly  round  the  warrior's  neck, 
When  his  plumed  helm  is  doffed.     Hence,  feeble  thoughts! 
I  am  sterner  now,  yet  once  such  dreams  were  mine  ! 

Raimond.     And  were  they  realized  ? 

Mont.     Youth  !  ask  me  not, 
But  listen  !     I  drew  near  my  own  fair  home ; 
There  was  no  light  along  its  walls,  no  sound 
Of  bugle  pealing  from  the  watchtower's  height 
At  my  approach,  although  my  trampling  steed 
Made  the  earth  ring  ;  yet  the  wide  gates  were  thrown 
All  open.     Then  my  heart  misgave  me  first, 
And  on  the  threshold  of  my  silent  hall 
I  paused  in  fear.     I  called — my  struggling  voice 
Gave  utterance  to  my  wife's,  my  children's  names  ; 
They  answered  not.     I  roused  my  failing  strength, 
And  wildly  rushed  within — and  they  were  there. 

Rai.     And  was  all  well? 

Mont.     Ay,  well !  for  death  is  well, 
And  they  were  all  at  rest !     I  see  them  yet, 
Pale  in  their  innocent  beauty,  which  had  failed 
To  stay  the  assassin's  arm  ! 

Rai.     Oh!  righteous  heaven  ! 
Who  had  done  this  ? 


SERIOUS    AND    SEN^IMB^^^Ai..  TOl' 

Mont.     Who! 

Proc.     Canst  thou  question,  who  ? 
Whom  hath  the  earth  to  perpetrate  such  deeds, 
In  the  cold-blooded  revelry  of  crime, 
But  those  whose  yoke  is  on  us? 

Rai.     Man  of  woe  ! 
What  words  have  pity  for  despair  like  thine  1 

Mont.     Pity  !  fond  youth  ! 

Proc.     Pity  ! — For  woes  like  these, 
There  is  no  sympathy  but  vengeance. 

Mont.     None ! 
Therefore  I  brought  you  hither,  that  your  hearts 
Might  catch  the  spirit  of  the  scene  !     Look  round ! 
We  are  in  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead  ; 
Within  yon  tomb  they  sleep,  whose  gentle  blood' 
Weighs  down  the  murderer's  soul      They  sleep  !  but  I 
Am  wakeful  o'er  their  dust !     I  laid  my  sword. 
Without  its  sheath,  on  their  sepulchral  stone, 
As  on  an  altar ;  and  the  eternal  stars, 
And  heaven,  and  night,  bore  witness  to  my  vow, 
No  more  to  wield  it  save  in  one  great  cause — 
The  vengeance  of  the  grave !     And  now  the  hour 
Of  that  atonement  comes  ! 

[He  takes  the  sword  from  tlie  tortib.] 

Bui.     My  spirit  burns  ! 
And  my  full  heart  almost  to  bursting  swells. 
Oh  !  for  the  day  of  battle  ! 

Proc.     Raimond !  they 
Whose  souls  are  dark  with  guiltless  blood,  must  die ; 
But  not  in  battle  ! 

Rai.     How,  my  father  ! 

Proc.     No  ! 
Look  on  that  sepulcher,  and  it  will  teach 
Another  lesson.     Childless  Montalba ! 

Mont.     Call  on  that  desolate  father,  in  the  hour 
When  his  revenge  is  nigh. 

Proc.     Are  we  all  met? 
Sicilians.     AH.  all  ! 

Proc.     I  knew  a  young  Sicilian,  one  whose  heart 
Should  be  all  fire.     On  that  most  guilty  day, 
When,  with  our  martyred  Conradin   the  flower 
Of  the  land's  knighthood  perished  ;   he,  of  whom 
I  speak,  a  weeping  boy.  whose  innocent  tears 
Melted  a  thousand  hearts  who  dared  not  aid, 

9^ 


W2  KBW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Stood  by  the  scaffold,  with  extended  arms. 
Calling  upon  his  father,  whose  last  look 
Turned  full  on  him  its  parting  agony. 
That  father's  blood  gushed  o'er  him  ! — and  the  boy 
Then  dried  his  tears,  and  with  a  kindling  eye, 
And  a  proud  flush  on  his  young  cheek,  looked  up 
To  the  bright  heaven. — Doth  he  remember  still 
That  bitter  hour  ? 

Second  Sicilian.     He  bears  a  sheathless  sword ! 
Call  on  the  orphan  when  revenge  is  nigh. 

Froc.     Thou,  too,  come  forth. 
From  thine  own  halls  an  exile  ! — Dost  thou  make 
The  mountain-fastnesses  thy  dwelling  still. 
While  hostile  banners,  o'er  thy  rampart  walls, 
Wave  their  proud  blazonry  ? 

First  Sicilian.     Even  so.     I  stood 
Last  night  before  my  own  ancestral  towers 
An  unknown  outcast,  while  the  tempest  beat 
On  my  bare  head — what  recked  it  ?     There  was  joy 
Within,  and  revelry :  the  festive  lamps 
Were  streaming  from  each  turret,  and  gay  songs 
In  the  stranger's  tongue  made  mirth.     They  little  deemed 
Who  heard  their  melodies ! — but  there  are  thoughts 
Best  nurtured  in  the  wild  ;  there  are  dread  vows 
Known  to  the  mountain  echoes. — Procida  ! 
Call  on  the  outcast  when  revenge  is  nigh. 

Froc.     Our  band  shows  gallantly — but  there  are  men 
Who  should  be  with  us  now,  had  they  not  dared 
In  some  wild  moment  of  festivity 
To  give  their  full  hearts  way,  and  breathe  a  wish 
For  freedom  ! — and  some  traitor — it  might  be 
A  breeze  perchance — bore  the  forbidden  sound 
ToEribert;  so  they  must  die — unless 
Fate,  who  at  times  is  wayward,  should  select 
Some  other  victim  first !     But  have  they  not 
Brothers  or  sons  among  us  % 

Guido.     Look  on  me  ! 
I  have  a  brother,  a  young,  high-souled  boy. 
And  beautiful  as  a  sculptor's  dream,  with  brow- 
That  wears,  amidst  its  dark  rich  curls,  the  stamp 
Of  inborn  nobleness.     In  truth,  he  is 
A  glorious  creature  !     But  his  doom  is  sealed 
With  theirs  of  whom  ye  spoke  ;  and  I  have  knelt, — 
Ay,  scorn  me  not !  'twas  for  his  life — I  knelt 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  108 

E'en  at  the  viceroy's  feet,  and  he  put  on 

That  heartless  laugh  of  cold  malig-nity 

We  knov\'  so  well  and  spurned  me.     But  the  staia 

Of  shame  like  this,  takes  blood  to  wash  it  off, 

And  thus  it  shall  be  canceled  ! — Call  on  me, 

When  the  stern  moment  of  revenge  is  nigh. 

Froc.     I  call  upon  thee  now  !     The  land's  high  soul 
Is  roused  and  moving  onward  like  a  breeze, 
Or  a  swift  sunbeam,  kindling  nature's  hues 
To  deeper  life  before  it.     In  his  chains, 
The  peasant  dreams  of  freedom  ! — ay,  'tis  thus 
Oppression  fans  the  imperishable  flame 
With  most  unconscious  hands. 
When  slavery's  cup 

O'erflows  its  bounds,  the' creeping  poison,  meant 
To  dull  our  senses,  through  each  burning  vein 
Pours  fever  lending  a  delirious  strength 
To  burst  man's  fetters — and  they  shall  be  burst ! 
Now,  before 

The  Majesty  of  yon  pure  Heaven :  whose  eye 
Is  on  our  hearts,  whose  righteous  arm  befriends 
The  arm  that  strikes  for  freedom ;  speak !  decree 
The  fate  of  our  oppressors. 

Mont.     Let  them  fall 
When  dreaming  least  of  peril ! — When  the  heart, 
Basking  in  sunny  pleasure,  doth  forget 
That  hate  may  smile,  but  sleeps  not.     Hide  the  sword 
With  a  thick  veil  of  myrtle,  and  in  halls 
Of  banqueting,  where  the  full  wine-cup  shines 
Bed  in  the  festal  torch-light,  meet  we  there, 
And  bid  them  welcome  to  the  feast  of  death. 

Rai.     Must  innocence  and  guilt  perish  alike? 

Mont.     Who  talks  of  innocence  ? 
When  hath  their  hand  been  stayed  for  innocence  ? 
Let  them  all  perish  ! — Heaven  will  choose  its  own. 
Why  should  their  children  live  ?     The  earthquake  whelms 
Its  undistinguished  thousands,  making  graves 
Of  peopled  cities  in  its  path ;  and  this 
Is  Heaven's  dread  justice — ay,  and  it  is  well  ! 
Why  then  should  we  be  tender,  when  the  skies 
Deal  thus  with  man? — what  if  the  infant  bleed? 
Is  there  not  pc^wer  to  hush  the  mother's  pangs  1 
What  if  the  youthful  bride  perchance  should  fall 
In  her  triumphant  beauty  ? — Should  we  pause, 


J  04  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

As  if  death  were  not  mercy  to  the  pangs 

Which  make  our  lives  the  records  of  our  foes  ? 

Let  them  all  perish ! — And  if  one  be  found 

Amidst  our  band,  to  stay  the  avenging  steel 

For  pity,  or  remorse,  or  boyish  love, 

Then  be  his  doom  as  theirs!  \^Aparise.'\ 

Why  gaze  ye  thus  ? 

Brethren,  what  means  your  silence? 

Gui.     Be  it  so  1 
If  one  amongst  us  stay  the  avenging  steel 
For  love  or  pity,  be  his  doom  as  theirs ! 
Pledge  we  our  faith  to  this  ! 

Rai.     [Rushing  foi'ivard  indignantly.']     Our  faith  to 
this ! 
No  !  I  but  dreamt  I  heard  it !     Can  it  be  ? 
My  countrymen,  my  father  !     Is  it  thus 
That  freedom  should  be  won  ?     Awake  !  awake 
To  loftier  thoughts  !     Lift  up,  exultingly, 
On  the  crowned  heights,  and  to  the  sweeping  wmds, 
Your  glorious  banner  !     Let  your  trumpet's  blast 
Make  the  tombs  thrill  with  echoes  !     Call  aloud. 
Proclaim  from  all  your  hills,  the  land  shall  bear 
The  stranger's  yoke  no  longer  !     What  is  he 
Who  carries  on  his  practiced  lip  a  smile 
Beneath  his  vest  a  daoforer  which  but  waits 
Till  the  heart  bounds  with  joy,  to  still  its  beatings? 
That  which  our  nature's  instinct  doth  recoil  from. 
And  our  blood  curdle  at.     Ay,  yours  and  mine, — 
A  murderer! — Heard  ye?— Shall  that  name  with  ours 
Go  down  to  after  days  ?     Oh,  friends  !  a  cause 
Like  that  for  which  we  rise,  hath  made  bright  names 
Of  the  elder  time  as  rallying-words  to  men, 
Sounds  full  of  might  and  immortality  ! 
And  shall  not  ours  be  such  ? 

Mont.     Fond  dreamer,  peace  ! 
Fame  !  what  is  fame  ?     Will  our  unconscious  dust 
Start  into  thrilling  rapture  from  the  grave, 
At  the  vain  breath  of  praise  ?     I  tell  thee,  youth, 
Our  souls  are  parched  with  agonizing  thirst, 
Which  must  be  quenched,  though  death  were  in  the  draught : 
We  must  have  vengeance,  for  our  foes  have  left 
No  other  joy  unblighted. 

Proc.     Oh  !  my  son, 
The  time  is  past  for  such  high  dreams  as  thine. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  106 

Thou  knowest  not  whom  we  deal  with.     Knightly  faith 
And  chivalrous  honor,  are  but  things  whereon 
They  cast  disdainful  pity.     We  must  meet 
Falsehood  with  wiles,  and  insult  with  revenge. 

Rai.     Many  a  land 
Hath  bowed  beneath  the  yoke ;  and  then  arisen, 
As  a  strong  lion  rending  silken  bonds, 
And  on  the  open  field,  before  high  heaven, 
Won  such  majestic  vengeance,  as  hath  made 
Its  name  a  power  on  earth. — Ay,  nations  own 
It  is  enough  of  glory  to  be  called 
The  children  of  the  mighty,  who  redeemed 
Their  native  soil — but  not  by  means  like  these. 

Mont.     I  have  no  children. — Of  Montalba's  blood 
Not  one  red  drop  doth  circle  through  the  veins 
Of  aught  that  breathes  !     Why,  what  have  I  to  do 
With  far  futurity  ?     My  spirit  lives 
But  in  the  past,     xiway  !  when  thou  dost  stand 
On  this  fair  earth,  as  doth  a  blasted  tree 
Which  the  warm  sun  revives  not,  then  return, 
Strong  in  thy  desolation  :  but,  till  then. 
Thou  art  not  for  our  purpose  ;  we  have  need 
Of  more  unshrinking  hearts. 

Rai.     Montalba,  know 
I  shrink  from  crime  alone.     Oh  !  if  my  voice 
Might  yet  have  power  amongst  you,  I  would  say, 
Associates,  leaders,  be  avenged  !  but  yet, 
As  knights,  as  warriors  ! 

Mont.     Peace !  havcy  we  not  borne 
The  indelible  taint  of  contumely  and  chains? 
We  are  not  knights  and  warriors.— Our  bright  crests 
Have  been  defiled  and  trampled  to  the  earth. 
Boy !  we  are  slaves — and  our  revenge  shall  be 
Deep  as  a  slave's  disgrace. 

Rai.     Why,  then,  farewell. 
I  leave  you  to  your  counsels.     He  that  still 
Would  hold  his  lofty  nature  undebased. 
And  his  name  pure,  were  but  a  loiterer  here. 

[Exit  Rainwiid.\ 

Proc.     He's  gone  ! — why  let  it  be  ! 
I  trust  our  Sicily  hath  many  a  son 
Valiant  as  mine.     Associates  !  'tis  decreed 
Our  foes  shall  perish.     We  have  but  to  name 
The  hour,  the  scene  the  signal. 


106  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Mont.     It  should  be 
]n  the  full  city,  when  some  festival 
Hath  gatnered  throngs,  and  lulled  infatuate  hearts 
To  brief  security.     Then  may  we  mix 
With  the  flushed  revelers,  making  their  gay  feast 
The  harvest  of  the  grave. 

Proc.     There  are  noblemen 
Sentenced  to  die,  for  whom  we  fain  would  purchase 
Reprieve  with  other  blood. 

Mont.     Be  it  then  the  day 
Preceding  that  appointed  for  their  doom. 

Gui.     My  brother,  thou  shalt  live  ! — Oppression  boasts 
No  gift  of  prophecy  !     It  but  remains 
To  name  our  signal,  chiefs  ! 

Mont.     The  vesper-bell. 

Proc.     Even  so,  the  vesper-bell,  whose  deep-toned  peal 
Is  heard  o'er  land  and  wave. — The  vesper-bell ! 
That  sound  shall  wake  the  avenger ;  for  'tis  come, 
The  time  when  power  is  in  a  voice,  a  breath, 
To  burst  the  spell  which  bound  us.     But  the  night 
Is  waning,  with  her  stars,  which,  one  by  one. 
Warn  us  to  part.     Friends,  to  your  homes  ! — your  homes? 
That  name  is  yet  to  win. 


XXX.— FROM  VIZKKRO.— Sheridan. 

ALONZO SENTINEL ROLLA. 

Scene. — A  dungeon — Alonzo  in  chains — the  Sentinel  walking  near. 

Alonzo.  For  the  last  time,  I  have  beheld  the  shadowed 
ocean  close  upon  the  light.  For  the  last  time,  through  my 
cleft  dungeon's  roof,  I  now  behold  the  quivering  luster  of 
ihe  stars.  For  the  last  time,  oh,  sun !  (and  soon  the  hour,) 
I  shall  behold  thy  rising,  and  thy  level  beams  melting  the 
pale  mists  of  morn  to  glittering  dew-drops.  Then  comes 
my  death,  and  in  the  morning  of  my  day  I  fall,  which — no, 
Alonzo,  date  not  the  life  w^hich  thou  hast  run,  by  the  mean 
reckoning  of  the  hours  and  days  which  thou  hast  breathed  : 
a  life  spent  worthily  should  be  measured  by  a  nobler  line ; 
by  deeds,  not  years.     Then  wouldst  thou  murmur  not,  but 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  107 

bless  Providence,  which  in  so  short  a  span,  made  thee  the 
instrument  of  wide  and  spreading  blessings  to  the  helpless 
and  oppressed  !  Though  sinking  in  decrepid  age,  he  prema- 
turely falls  whose  memory  records  no  benefit  conferred  by 
him  on  man.  They  only  have  lived  long,  who  have  lived 
virtuously. — [Looking  out.\ — Surely,  even  now  thin  streaks 
of  glimmering  light  steal  on  the  darkness  of  the  east.  If 
so.  my  life  is  but  one  hour  more.  I  will  not  watch  the 
coming  dawn;  but  in  the  darkness  of  my  cell,  my  last 
prayer  to  thee,  Power  Supreme  !  shall  be  for  my  wife  and 
child  !  Grant  them  to  dwell  in  innocence  and  peace ;  grant 
health  and  purity  of  mind — all  else  is  worthless. 

[Enters  his  cell.'] 

Sentinel.     Who's  there  ?  answer  quickly !  who's  there  % 

Rolla.     [  Within,  j     A  friar  comes  to  visit  your  prisoner 
[Rolla  enters^  disguised  as  a  monk.] 

Rol.  Inform  me,  friend,  is  not  Alonzo,  the  Spanish  pris 
oner,  confined  in  this  dungeon  l 

Sen.     He  is. 

Rol.     I  must  speak  with  him. 

Sen.     You  must  not.     [Stopping  him  with  his  spear.] 

Rol.     He  is  my  friend. 

Sen.     Not  if  he  were  thy  brother. 

Rol.     What  is  to  be  his  fate  ? 

Sen.     He  dies  at  sunrise. 

Rol.     Ha  !  then  I  am  come  in  time. 

Sen.     Just—  to  witness  his  death. 

Rol.     Soldier,  I  must  speak  to  him. 

Sen.     Back.  back.     It  is  impossible. 

Rol.     I  do  entreat  thee,  but  for  one  moment. 

Sen.     Thou  entreatest  in  vain — my  orders  are  most  strict 

Rol.     Even  now,  I  saw  a  messenger  go  hence. 

Sen.  He  brought  a  pass  which  we  are  all  accustomed  to 
obey. 

Rol.  Look  on  this  wedge  of  massive  gold — look  on  these 
precious  gems.  In  thy  own  land  they  will  be  wealth  for 
thee  and  thine,  beyond  thy  hope  or  wish.  Take  them — 
they  are  thine.     Let  me  but  pass  one  minute  with  Alonzo. 

Sen.  Away  ! — wouldst  thou  corrupt  me  ?  Me  I  an  old 
Castilian  :     I  know  my  duty  better. 

Rol     Soldier !  hast  thou  a  wife  ? 

Sen.     I  have. 

Rol.     Hast  thou  children  ? 

Sen.     Four — honest  lively  boys. 


108  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Rol.     Where  didst  thou  leave  them  ? 

Sen.  In  my  native  village  ;  even  in  the  cot  where  my- 
self was  born. 

Rol.     Dost  thou  love  thy  children  and  thy  wife  V 

Sen.     Do  I  love  then. !     God  knows  my  heart — I  do. 

Rol.  Soldier  !  imagine  thou  wert  doomed  to  die  a  cruel 
death  in  a  strange  land.     What  would  be  thy  last  request? 

Sen.  That  some  of  my  comradiS  should  carry  my  dying 
blessing  to  my  wife  and  children. 

Rol.  Oh  !  but  if  that  comrade  was  at  thj'  prison  gate, 
and  should  there  be  told — thy  fellow-soldier  dies  at  sunrise, 
yet  thou  shalt  not  for  a  moment  see  him,  nor  shalt  thou 
bear  his  dying  blessing  to  his  poor  children  or  his  wretched 
wife,  what  wouldst  thou  think  of  him  who  thus  could  drive 
thy  comrade  from  the  door  ? 

Sen.     How  ? 

Rol.  Alonzo  has  a  wife  and  child.  I  am  come  to  re- 
ceive for  her,  and  for  her  babe,  the  last  blessing  of  my 
friend. 

Sen.     Go  in.      ^Shoulders  his  spear  and  ivalks  away.l 

Rol.  Oh,  holy  Nature !  thou  dost  never  plead  in  vain. 
There  is  not,  of  our  earth,  a  creature  bearing  form,  and  life, 
human  or  savage — native  of  the  forest  wild,  or  giddy  air- 
around  whose  parent  bosom  thou  hast  not  a  cord  entwined 
of  power  to  tie  them  to  their  offspring's  claims,  and  at  thy 
will  to  draw  them  back  to  thee.  On  iron  pinions  borne, 
the  blood-stained  vulture  cleaves  the  storm,  yet  is  the  plum- 
age closest  to  her  breast,  soft  as  the  cygnet's  down,  and  o'er 
her  unshelled  brood  the  murmuring  ring-dove  sits  not  more 
gently. — Yes,  now  he  is  beyond  the  porch,  barring  the  outer 
gate  !  Alonzo !  Alonzo !  my  friend  !  Ha !  in  gentle  sleep ! 
Alonzo — rise. 

Al.  How^ !  is  my  hour  elapsed?  Well,  [Returning  from 
the  cell^  I  am  ready. 

Rol.     Alonzo — know  me. 

Al.     AVhat  voice  is  that  ? 

Rol     'Tis  Rolla's.  [Takes  off  his  disguise.'] 

Al.  RoUa!  my  friend  !  [Embraces  hi77i.]  Heavens!  how 
couldst  thou  pass  the  guard?     Did  this  habit — 

Rol.     There  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost  in  words  :  this 
disguise  I  tore  from  the  dead  body  of  a  friar,  as  I  passed 
our  field  of  battle :  it  has  gained  me  entrance  to  thy  dun- 
geon; now  take  it,  thou,  and  fly. 
Al.     And  Rolla— 


SEiaOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  109 

Rol.     Will  remain  here  in  thy  place. 

Al.  And  die  for  me  ?  No !  liather  eternal  tortures 
rack  me. 

Rol.  I  shall  not  die.  Alonzo.  It  is  thy  life  Pizarro 
seeks,  not  Holla's ;  and  from  my  prison  soon  will  thy  arm 
deliver  me;  or,  should  it  be  otherwise,  I  am  as  a  blighted 
plantain,  standing  alone  amid  the  sandy'  desert.  Nothing 
seeks  or  lives  beneath  my  shelter.  Thou  art — a  husband 
and  a  father — the  being  of  a  lovely  wife  and  helpless  infant 
hangs  upon  thy  life.  Go !  go,  Alonzo !  Go,  to  save,  not 
thyself,  but  Cora  and  thy  child  ! 

Al.  Urge  me  not  thus,  my  friend ;  I  had  prepared  to  die 
in  peace. 

Rol.  To  die  in  peace  !  devoting  her  thou'st  sworn  to  live 
for,  to  madness,  misery,  and  death?  For  be  assured,  the 
state  I  left  her  in  forbids  all  hope,  but  from  thy  quick  re- 
turn. 

Al     Oh  God ! 

Rol.  If  thou  art  yet  irresolute,  Alonzo,  now  heed  me 
well,  I  think  thou  hast  not  known  that  Eolla  ever  pledged 
his  word,  and  shrunk  from  its  fulfillment.  And  by  the  heart 
of  truth  I  swear,  if  thou  art  proudly  obstinate  to  deny  thy 
friend  the  transport  of  preserving  Cora's  life,  in  thee,  no 
power  that  sways  the  will  of  man  shall  stir  me  hence  ;  and 
thou'lt  but  have  the  desperate  triumph  of  seeing  Kolla  perish 
by  thy  side,  with  the  assured  conviction  that  Cora  and  thy 
child  are  lost  forever. 

Al.     Oh.  Rolla!  thou  distractest  me  ! 

Rol.  Begone  !  A  moment's  further  pause,  and  all  is  lost. 
The  dawn  approaches.  Fear  not  for  me  :  I  will  treat  with 
Pizarro,  as  for  surrender  and  submission  ;  I  shall  gain  time, 
no  doubt,  while  thou,  with  a  chosen  band,  passing  the  secret 
^vay,  mayest  at  night  return,  release  thy  friend,  and  bear 
him  back  in  triumph.  Yes,  hasten,  dear  Alonzo  !  Even 
now  I  hear  thy  frantic  vvife^  poor  Cora  call  thee!  Haste. 
Alonzo  !     Haste  ! — Haste  ! 

Al.  Rolla.  I  fear  thy  friendship  drives  me  from  honor 
and  from  right. 

Rol.     Did  Rolla  ever  counsel  dishonor  to  his  friend? 

Al.     Oh  !  my  preserver !  {^Embracing  him.] 

Rol.  I  feel  thy  warm  tears  dropping  on  my  cheek. — Go! 
I  am  rewarded.  [  Throwing  a  friar'' s  garment  over  Alonzo^ 
There,  conceal  thy  face :  and  that  they  may  not  clank,  hold 
fast  thy  chains.     Now,  God  be  with  thee! 

iO 


110  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Ai  At  night  we  meet  again.  Then,  so  aid  me  Heaven ! 
I  return  to  save,  or  perish  with  thee !  [ExU.'] 

Rol.  [Looking  after  him~\  He  has  passed  the  outer 
porch — he  is  safe  !  he  will  soon  embrace  his  wife  and  child  ! 
Now,  Cora,  didst  thou  not  wrong  me?  This  is  the  first 
time  throughout  my  life.  I  ever  deceived  man.  Forgive  me, 
God  of  Truth  !  if  I  am  wrong.  Alonzo  flatters  himself 
that  we  shall  meet  again  !  Yes,  there  !  [Lifting his  hands 
to  lieaven.^  Assuredly  we  shall  meet  again  ;  there,  possess 
in  peace  the  joys  of  everlasting  love  and  friendship — on 
earth,  imperfect  and  embittered.  I  will  retire,  lest  the  guard 
return  before  Alonzo  may  have  passed  their  lines. 

[Retires  into  tJie  cell.'] 


XXXI.— FROM  VTLAmiO.— Sheridan. 

PIZARRO VAL VERDE LAS    CASAS ALMAGRO DAVILLO 

GOMEZ OROZEMBO. 

Pizarro.  Alonzo  !  the  traitor  !  How  I  once  loved  that 
man  !  His  noble  mother  intrusted  him,  a  boy,  to  my  protec- 
tion. At  my  table  did  he  feast — in  my  tent  did  he  repose. 
I  had  marked  his  early  genius,  and  the  valorous  spirit  that 
grew  with  it.  Often  had  I  talked  to  him  of  our  first  adven- 
tures— what  storms  we  struggled  with — what  perils  we 
surmounted  !  When  landed  with  a  slender  host  upon  an 
unknown  land — then,  when  I  told  how  famine  and  fatigue, 
discord  and  toil,  day  by  day  did  thin  our  ranks ;  amid  close 
pressing  enemies,  how  still  undaunted  I  endured  and  dared 
— maintained  my  purpose  and  my  power,  in  despite  of 
growling  mutiny  or  bold  revolt,  till,  with  my  faithful  few 
remaining,  I  became  at  last  victorious !  When,  I  say,  of 
these  things  I  spoke,  the  youth  Alonzo,  with  tears  of  won- 
der and  delight,  would  throw  him  on  my  neck,  and  swear 
his  soul's  ambition  owned  no  other  leader. 

Valverde.     What  could  subdue  attachment  so  begun^ 

Piz.     Las  Casas. — He  it  was,  with  fascinating  craft  and 

canting  precepts  of  humanity,  raised   in   Alonzo's   mind  a 

new  enthusiasm,  which  forced  him,  as  the  stripling  termed 

it,  to  forego  his  country's  claims  for  those  of  human  nature 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  Ill 

Val.  Yes,  the  traitor  left  thee,  joined  the  Peruvians^  and 
became  thy  enemy,  and  Spain's. 

Piz.  But  first  with  weariless  remonstrance  he  sued  to 
win  me  from  my  purpose,  and  untwine  the  sword  from  my 
determined  grasp.  Much  he  spoke  of  right,  of  justice,  and 
humanity,  calling  the  Peruvians  our  innocent  and  unoffend- 
ing brethren. 

Val.     They  ! — Obdurate  heathen  ! — They  our  brethren  ! 

]?iz.  But  when  he  found  that  the  soft  folly  of  the  plead- 
ing tears  he  dropped  upon  my  bosom,  fell  on  marble,  he  fled 
and  joined  the  foe  ;  then,  profiting  by  the  lessons  he  had 
gained  in  wronged  Pizarro's  school,  the  youth  so  disciplined 
and  led  his  new  allies,  that  soon  he  forced  me — ha  !  I  burn 
with  shame  and  fury  while  I  own  it ! — in  base  retreat  and 
foul  discomfiture,  to  quit  the  shore. 

Val.     But  the  hour  of  revenge  is  come. 

Piz.  It  is  ;  I  have  returned — my  force  is  strengthened, 
and  the  audacious  boy  shall  soon  know  that  Pizarro  lives, 
and  has — a  grateful  recollection  of  the  thanks  he  owes  him. 

{Trumpets  without^ 
\_Enter  Las  Casas^  Alniagru^  Davillo.^  and  soldiers.'] 

Las  Casas.     Pizarro,  we  attend  thy  summons. 

Piz.  Welcome,  venerable  father  ;  my  friends,  most  wel- 
come. Friends  and  fellow-soldiers,  at  length  the  hour  has 
arrived,  which  to  Pizarro's  hopes  presents  the  full  reward 
of  our  undaunted  enterprise  and  long-enduring  toils.  Con- 
fident in  security,  this  day  the  foe  devotes  to  solemn  sacri- 
fice ;  if  with  bold  surprise  we  strike  on  their  solemnity, 
trust  to  your  leader's  word,  we  shall  not  fail. 

Almagro.  Too  long  inactive  have  we  been  mouldering 
on  the  coast — our  stores  exhausted,  and  our  soldiers  mur- 
muring. Battle  !  battle ! — then  death  to  the  armed,  and 
chains  for  the  defenseless. 

Davillo.     Death  to  the  whole  Peruvian  race  ! 

Las  C.     Merciful  Heaven  ! 

Aim.  Yes,  general,  the  attack,  and  instantly  !  Then 
shall  Alonzo,  basking  at  his  ease,  soon  cease  to  scofT  our 
sufferings  and  scorn  our  force. 

Las  C.  Alonzo  !  Scorn  asd  presumption  are  not  in  his 
nature. 

Aim.     'Tis  fit  Las  Casas  should  defend  his  pupil. 

Piz.  Speak  not  of  the  traitor,  or  hear  his  name  but  as 
the  bloody  summons  to  assault  and  vengeance.  It  appears 
've  are  agreed  ! 


112  NEW   SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Aim.     We  are. 

Bav.     AH!— Battle!  battle! 

Las  C.  Is  then,  the  dreadful  measure  of  your  cruelty 
not  yet  complete  ?  Battle  ! — gracious  Heaven  I  iVgainst 
whom  ?  Against  a  king,  in  whose  mild  bosom  your  atro- 
cious injuries  even  yet  have  not  excited  hate!  but  who,  in- 
sulted or  victorious,  still  sues  for  peace.  Against  a  people 
who  never  wronged  the  living  being  their  Creator  formed  ; 
a  people  who,  children  of  innocence  !  received  you  as  cher- 
ished guests — with  eager  hospitality  and  confiding  kindness, 
Generously  and  freely  did  they  share  with  you  their  comforts, 
their  treasures,  and  their  homes ;  you  repaid  them  by  fraud, 
oppression,  and  dishonor.  These  eyes  have  witnessed  all  I 
speak — as  gods  you  were  received ;  as  fiends  you  have 
acted. 

Piz.     Las  Casas ! 

Las  C.  Pizarro,  hear  me  ! — hear  me,  chieftains  !—  And 
thou,  All-powerful,  whose  thunders  can  shiver  into  sand  the 
adamantine  rock — whose  lightnings  can  pierce  to  the  core  of 
the  rived  and  quaking  earth — oh  !  let  thy  power  give  effect 
to  thy  servant's  words,  as  thy  spirit  gives  courage  to  his 
will  !  Do  not,  I  implore  you,  renew  the  foul  barbarities 
which  your  insatiate  avarice  has  inflicted  on  this  wretched, 
unoffending  race  ! — But  hush,  my  sighs — fall  not  drops,  of 
useless  sorrow  ! — heart-breaking  anguish,  choke  not  my  ut- 
terance. All  I  entreat  is,  send  me  once  more  to  those  you 
call  your  enemies.  0  !  let  me  be  the  messenger  of  peni- 
tence from  you  :  I  shall  return  with  blessings  and  with 
peace  from  them. 

Piz.  Close  this  idle  war  of  words :  time  flies,  and  our 
opportunity  will  be  lost.  Chieftains,  are  ye  for  instant  bat- 
tle? 

Aim.     We  are. 

Las  C.  Oh,  men  of  blood !  I  was  anointed,  not  to 
curse,  but  to  bless  my  countrymen  :  yet  now  my  blessing 
on  their  force  were  blasphemy.  No  !  I  curse  your  purpose, 
homicides  !  I  curse  the  bond  of  blood  by  which  you  are 
united.  May  fell  disunion,  infamy,  and  rout,  deteat  your 
projects  and  betray  your  hcJpes  !  On  you  and  your  children 
be  the  peril  of  the  innocent  blood  which  shall  be  shed  this 
day  !  T  leave  you  and  forever  !  No  longer  shall  these  aged 
eyes  be  seared  by  the  horrors  they  have  Witnessed.  In  caves, 
in  forests,  will  I  hide  myself;  with  tigers  and  with  savage 
beasts  will  I  commune ;  and  when  at  length  we  meet  before 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  113 

tlie  blessed  tribunal  of  that  Deity,  whose  mild  doctrines  and 
whose  mercies  ye  have  this  day  renounced,  0  then  shall 
you  feel  the  agony  and  grief  of  soul  which  tear  the  bosom 
of  your  accuser  now.  [Exit.] 

Piz.  [^Turning  to  Alniagro.]  Now  to  prepare  our  mus- 
ter and  our  march.  At  mid-day  is  the  hour  of  the  sacrifice. 
Consulting  with  our  guides,  the  route  of  your  divisions  shall 
be  given  to  each  commander.  If  we  surprise,  we  conquer ; 
and  if  we  conquer,  the  gates  of  Quito  will  be  open  to  us. 
[Enter  Gomez.] 

Aim.     How  !  Gomez,  what  bringest  thou  ? 

Gomez.  On  yonder  hill,  among  the  palm-trees,  we  have 
surprised  an  old  cacique :  escape  by  flight  he  could  not,  and 
we  seized  him  and  his  attendant  unresisting :  yet  his  lips 
breathe  nothing  but  bitterness  and  scorn. 

Piz.  Drag  him  before  us.  [Gomez  leaves  the  tent.^  and 
returns  conducting  in  Orozcnibo.,  in  chains.^  and  guarded.] 
What  art  thou,  stranger  ? 

Orozembo.  First  tell  me  which  among  you  is  the  captain 
of  this  band  of  robbers  ? 

Piz.     Ha ! 

Aim.     Madman  !     Tear  out  his  tongue,  or  else — 

Oro.     Thou'lt  hear  some  truth. 

Dav.  [Shoiving  his  poniard.]  Shall  I  not  plunge  this 
into  his  heart? 

Oi'o.  [After  surveying  Davillo  contemptuously — tlien 
turning  to  Pizarro.]  Does  your  army  boast  many  such 
heroes  as  this  ? 

Piz.  Audacious  !  This  insolence  has  sealed  thy  doom. 
Die  thou  shalt,  gray-headed  ruffian.  But  first  confess  what 
thou  knowest. 

Oro.  I  know  that  which  thou  hast  just  assured  me  of — 
that  I  shall  die. 

Piz.  Less  audacity,  perhaps,  might  have  preserved  thy 
Ufa. 

Oro.  My  life  is  as  a  withered  tree — it  is  not  worth  pre- 
serving. 

Piz.  Hear  me.  old  man.  Even  now  we  march  against 
the  Peruvian  army.  We  know  there  is  a  secret  path  that 
leads  to  your  strong  hold  among  the  rocks :  guide  us  to 
that,  and  name  your  reward.     If  wealth  be  thy  wish — 

Oro.     Ha!  ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Piz.     Dost  thou  despise  my  offer  ? 

Oro.     Thee  and  thy  offer  ' — Wealth  !     I  have  the  wealth 
G  10* 


114  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

of  two  doar  gallant  sons — I  have  stored  in  heaven  the  riches 
which  repay  good  actions  here — and  still  my  chief  treasure 
I  do  bear  about  me. 

Fiz.     What  is  that  ?     Inform  me. 

Oro.  I  will ;  for  it  never  can  be  thine — the  treasure  of 
a  pure,  unsullied  conscience. 

Piz.  I  believe  there  is  no  other  Peruvian  dares  speak  as 
thou  dost. 

Oro.  Would  I  couid  believe  there  is  no  other  Spaniard 
who  dares  act  as  thou  dost. 

Gom.     Obdurate  Pagan  \     How  numerous  is  your  army  1 

Oro.     Count  the  leaves  of  yonder  forest. 

Aim.     Which  is  the  weakest  part  of  your  camp  ? 

Oro.  It  has  no  weak  part — on  every  side  'tis  fortified  by 
justice. 

Piz.  Where  have  you  concealed  your  wives  and  your 
children  ? 

Oro.     In  the  hearts  of  their  husbands  and  their  fathers. 

Piz.     Knowcst  thou  Alonzo  ? 

Oro.  Know  him  !  Alonzo!  Know  him!  Our  nation's 
benefactor  !     The  guardian  angel  of  Peru  ! 

Piz.     By  what  has  he  merited  that  title  ? 

Oro.     By  not  resembling  thee. 

Aim.  Who  is  this  Holla,  joined  with  Alonzo  in  com- 
mand 1 

Oro.  I  will  answer  that ;  for  I  love  to  hear  and  to  repeat 
the  hero's  name.  RolJa,  the  kinsman  of  the  king,  is  the 
idol  of  our  army ;  in  war,  a  tiger,  chased  by  the  hunter's 
spear;  in  peace,  more  gentle  than  the  un weaned  lamb. 
Cora  was  once  betrothed  to  him ;  but  finding  she  preferred 
Alonzo,  he  resigned  his  claim,  and,  I  fear,  his  peace,  to 
friendship  and  to  Cora's  happiness ;  yet  still  he  loves  her 
with  a  pure  and  holy  fire. 

Piz.     Romantic  savage!  I  shall  meet  this  Holla  soon. 
[^Retires.,  to  confer  tvith  Valverde.] 

Oro.  Thou  hadst  better  not !  The  terrors  of  his  noble 
eye  would  strike  thee  dead. 

Dav.     Silence,  or  tremble  ! 

Oro.  Beardless  robber  !  I  never  yet  have  trembled  be- 
fore God — why  should  I  tremble  before  man  ?  Why  before 
thee,  thou  less  than  man  ? 

Dav.     Another  word  audacious  heathen,  and  I  strike  1 

Oro  Strike,  Christian  !  Then  boast  among  thy  fellows 
— I  too  have  murdered  a  Peruvian  ! 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  115 

Dav,     Hell  and  vengeance  seize  thee  !        [^Stabs  him.^ 

Piz.     [Rushing  forward.]     Hold  ! 

Dav.     Couldst  thou  longer  have  endured  his  insults  ? 

Piz.     And  therefore  should  he  die  untortured? 

Oro.  True  !  Observe,  young  man,  [To  Davillo,]  thy 
unthinking  rashness  has  saved  me  from  the  rack  ;  and  thou 
thyself  hast  lost  the  opportunity  of  a  useful  lesson ;  thou 
mightest  thyself  have  seen  with  what  cruelty  vengeance 
would  have  innicted  torments ;  and  with  what  patience 
virtue  would  have  borne  them. 

[Orozembo  is  home  off.,  dying.'] 

Piz.     Away  ! — Davillo  !  if  thus  rash  a  second  time — 

Dav.     Forgive  the  hasty  indignation  which — 

Piz.  No  more — our  guard  and  guides  approach.  [Sol- 
diers cross  from  right  to  left.]  Follow  me,  friends — each 
shall  have  his  post  assigned,  and  ere  Peruvia's  god  shall 
sink  beneath  the  main,  the  Spanish  banner,  bathed  in  blood, 
shall  float  above  the  walls  of  vanquished  Quito.     [Exit.] 


XXXII. —FROM  THE  BENEVOLENT  SE"^ .—Cumherlaiid. 

SIR    STEPHEN    BERTRAM FREDERICK    BERTRAM CHARLES 

RATCLIFFE SAUNDERS SHEVA,    THE    JEW JABAL. 

Scene  1. — An  apartment  in  the  house  of  Sir  Stephen  Bertram. 

[Enter  Frederick  Bertram  and  Charles  Ratcliffe.] 

Charles.     Well  met.  Frederick. 

Frederick.     I  wish  I  could  say  so. 

Char.     Why,  what's  the  matter  now  ? 

Fred.     I  have  no  good  news  to  tell  you. 

Char.  I  don't  expect  it ;  you  are  not  made  to  be  the 
bearer  of  good  news  ;  knavery  engrosses  all  fortune's  favor, 
and  fools  run  up  and  down  with  the  tidings  of  it. 

Fred.     You  are  still  a  philosopher. 

Char.  I  cannot  tell  that  till  I  am  tried  by  prosperity ; 
it  is  that  which  sets  our  failings  in  full  view;  adversity  con- 
ceals them.  But  come,  discuss  :  tell  me  in  what  one  part 
of  my  composition  the  ingenious  cruelty  of  fortune  can 
place  another  blow. 

Fred.     By  my  soul,  Charles,  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you 


116  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

because  the  blow  is  now  given  by  a  hand  I  wish  to  rever- 
ence. You  know  the  temper  of  Sir  Stephen  Bertram  ;  he 
is  my  father,  therefore  I  will  not  enlarge  upon  a  subject  that 
would  be  painful  to  us  both.  It  is  with  infinite  regret  I 
have  seen  you  (nobly  descended,  and  still  more  nobly  en- 
dowed) earning  a  scanty  maintenance  at  your  desk  in  his 
counting-house  :  it  is  a  slavery  you  are  now  released  from. 

Char.  I  understand  you ;  Sir  Stephen  has  no  further 
commands  for  me.  1  will  go  to  him  and  deliver  up  my 
keys.  [  Going.  ] 

Fred.  Have  patience  for  a  moment.  Do  you  guess  his 
reasons  for  this  hasty  measure  ? 

Char.  What  care  I  for  his  reasons,  when  I  know  they 
cannot  touch  my  honor ! 

Fred.  Oh,  Charles,  my  heart  is  penetrated  with  your 
situation !     What  will  become  of  those  beloved  objects  ? 

Char.  Why,  what  becomes  of  all  the  objects  misery 
lays  low  ?  They  shrink  from  sight  and  are  forgotten.  You 
know  I  will  not  hear  you  on  this  subject :  'twas  not  with 
my  consent  you  ever  knew  there  were  such  objects  in  ex- 
istence. 

Fred.  I  own  it ;  but  in  this  extremity  methinks  you 
might  relax  a  little  from  that  rigid  honor. 

Char.  Never  ;  but,  as  the  body  of  a  man  is  braced  in 
winter,  so  is  my  resolution  by  adversity.  On  this  point  only 
can  we  differ.     Why  will  my  friend  persist  in  urging  it  ? 

Fred.     I  have  done.     You  have  j^our  way. 

Char.     Then,  with  your  leave,  I'll  go  to  your  father. 

Fred.  Hold  !  Here  comes  one  that  supersedes  all  other 
visitors — old  Sheva,  the  rich  Jew,  the  merest  muckworm  in 
the  city  of  London.  How  the  old  Hebrew  casts  about  for 
prodigals  to  snap  at !     I'll  throw  him  out  a  bait  for  sport. 

Char.  No  ;  let  him  pass  ;  what  sport  can  his  infirmities 
afford  ? 

{Fnter  Sheva.'] 

Sheva.  The  goot  day  to  you,  my  yoiing  master !  How 
is  it  with  your  health,  I  pray  ?  Is  your  fader,  Sir  Stephen 
Bertram^  and  u\y  very  goot  patron,  to  be  spoken  with  ? 

Fred.  Yes,  yes.  he  is  at  home,  and  to  be  spoken  with, 
under  some  precaution,  Sheva ;  if  you  bring  him  money, 
you  would  be  welcome. 

Sheva.  Ah !  that  is  very  goot.  Moneys  is  welcome  every- 
where. 

Fred.     Pass  on,  pass  on  !  no  more  apologies.     Good  man 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  1^7 

of  money,  save  your  breath  to  count  your  guineas.  lExit 
SJicva.']  That  fellow  would  not  let  his  shadow  fall  upon  the 
earth  if  he  could  help  it. 

Char.  You  are  too  hard  upon  him.  The  thing  is  cour- 
teous. 

Fred.  Hang  him !  he'll  bow  for  half  a  crown.  His 
carcass  and  his  covering  would  not  coin  into  a  ducat,  yet  he 
is  a  moving  mine  of  wealth. 

Char.  You  see  these  characters  with  indignation  :  I 
contemplate  them  with  pity.  I  have  a  fellow  feeling  for 
poor  Sheva :  he  is  as  much  in  poverty  as  I  am,  only  it  is 
poverty  of  another  species :  he  wants  what  he  has ;  I  have 
nothing,  and  want  everything.  Misers  are  not  unuseful 
members  of  the  community  ;  they  act  like  dams  to  rivers, 
hold  up  the  stream  that  else  would  run  to  waste  ;  and  make 
deep  water  where  there  would  be  shallows. 

Fred.  I  recollect  you  were  his  rescuer ;  I  did  not  know 
you  were  his  advocate. 

Char.  'Tis  true,  T  snatched  him  out  of  jeopardy.  My 
countrymen,  with  all  their  natural  humanity,  have  no  objec- 
tion to  the  hustling  of  a  Jew.  The  poor  old  creature  was 
most  roughly  handled. 

Fred.     What  was  the  cause  ? 

Char.  I  never  asked  the  cause.  There  vi^as  an  hundred 
upon  one ;  that  was  cause  enough  for  me  to  make  myself  a 
second  to  the  party  overmatched.  I  got  a  few  hard  knocks, 
but  I  brought  off  my  man. 

Fred.  The  synagogue  should  canonize  you  for  the  deed. 
[Sheva  returns.^ 

Sheva.  Aha !  there  is  no  business  to  be  done  ;  there  is 
no  talking  to  your  fader.  He  is  not  just  now  in  the  sweet- 
est of  all  possible  tempers.  Anything,  Mr.  Bertram,  wanted 
in  my  way  ? 

Fred.  Yes,  Sheva,  there  is  enough  wanted  in  your  way  ; 
but  I  doubt  it  is  not  in  your  will  to  do  it. 

Sheva.  I  do  always  do  my  utmost  for  my  principals:  I 
never  spare  my  pains  when  business  is  going :  be  it  ever 
such  a  trifle.  I  am  thankful.  Every  little  helps  a  poor  man 
like  mo. 

Fred.  You  speak  of  your  spirit,  I  suppose,  when  you 
call  yourself  a  poor  man.  All  the  world  knows  you  roll  in 
riches. 

Sheva.  The  world  knows  no  great  deal  of  me.  I  do 
not  deny  but  my  moneys  may  roll  a  little  ;  but  for  myself," 


l\8 


NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


I  do  not  roll  at  all.  I  live  sparingly  and  labor  hard  ;  there- 
fore I  am  called  a  miser — I  cannot  help  it.  An  uncharita 
ble  dog — T  must  endure  it;  a  bloodsucker,  an  extortioner, 
a  Shylock.  Hard  names,  Mr.  Frederick  ;  but  what  can  a 
poor  Jew  say  in  return,  if  a  Christian  chooses  to  abuse 
him  ? 

Fred.  Say  nothing,  but  spend  your  money  like  a  Chris- 
tian. 

Sheva.  AVe  have  no  abiding  place  on  earth,  no  country, 
no  home  :  everybody  rails  at  us,  everybody  flouts  us,  every- 
body points  us  out  for  their  maygame  and  their  mockery. 
If  your  play-writers  want  a  butt,  or  a  buffoon,  or  a  knave, 
to  make  sport  of  out  comes  a  Jew,  to  be  baited  and  buffeted 
through  five  long  acts,  for  the  amusement  of  all  goot  Chris- 
tians. Cruel  sport !  merciless  amusement !  Hard  dealings 
for  a  poor  stray  sheep  of  the  scattered  flock  of  Abraham  ! 
How  can  you  expect  us  to  show  kindness,  when  we  receive 
none  ? 

Char.  {^Advancing.']  That  is  true,  friend  Sheva,  I  can 
witness.  I  am  sorry  to  say  there  is  too  much  justice  in 
your  complaint. 

Sheva.  Bless  this  goot  light !  I  did  not  see  you — 'tis 
my  very  goot  friend,  Mr.  Katcliffe,  as  I  live.  Give  me  your 
pardon.  I  should  be  sorry  to  say  in  your  hearing,  that 
there  is  no  charity  for  the  poor  Jews.  Truly,  sir,  I  am 
under  very  great  obligations  to  you  for  your  generous  pro- 
tection t'other  night,  when  I  was  mobbed  and  maltreated; 
and,  for  aught  I  can  tell,  should  have  been  massacred,  had 
not  you  stood  forward  in  my  defense.  Truly,  sir,  I  bear 
it  very  thankfully  in  my  remembrance ;  truly  I  do ;  yes, 
truly. 

Fred.  Leave  me  with  him,  Charles;  I'll  hold  him  in 
discourse  whilst  you  go  to  my  father.  [^Exit  Chm-les.] 

Sheva.  Oh  I  it  was  a  goot  deed,  very  goot  deed,  to  save 
a  poor  Jew  from  a  pitiless  mob ;  and  I  am  very  grateful  to 

you,  worthy  Mr.  ,  Ah  I  the  gentleman  is  gone  away  ; 

that  is  another  thing. 

Fred.  It  is  so,  but  your  gratitude  need  not  go  away  at 
the  same  time ;  you  are  not  bound  to  make  good  the 
proverb — "  Out  of  sight,  out  of  mind." 

Sheva.  No,  no.  no !  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  him, 
not  only  for  my  life,  but  for  the  moneys  and  the  valuables 
I  had  about  me ;  I  had  been  hustled  out  of  them  all,  but 
for  him. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  119 

Fred.  Well,  then,  having  so  much  gratitude  for  his 
favors,  you  have  now  an  opportunity  of  making  some  return 
to  him. 

Sheva.  Yes,  yes,  and  I  do  make  him  a  return  of  my 
thanks  and  goot  wishes  very  heartily.  What  can  a  poor 
Jew  say  more  ?  I  do  wish  him  all  goot  things,  and  give 
him  all  goot  words. 

Fred.  Good  words,  indeed  !  What  are  they  to  a  man 
who  is  cast  naked  on  the  wide  world,  with  a  widowed 
mother  and  a  defenseless  sister,  who  look  up  to  him  for 
their  support  ? 

Slieva.  Goot  lack,  goot  lack  !  I  thought  he  was  in  oc- 
cupations in  your  fader's  counting-house. 

Fred.  He  was ;  and  from  his  scanty  pittance  piously 
supported  these  poor  destitutes  :  that  source  is  now  stopped, 
and  as  you,  when  in  the  midst  of  rioters,  was  in  want  of  a 
protector,  so  is  he,  in  the  midst  of  his  misfortunes,  in  want 
of  some  kind  friend  to  rescue  him. 

Sheva.  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  this  world  is  full  of  sadness 
and  of  sorrow ;  miseries  upon  miseries  !  unfortunates  by 
hundreds  and  by  thousands,  and  poor  Sheva  has  but  two 
weak  eyes  to  find  tears  for  them  all. 

Fred.  Come,  come,  Sheva,  pity  will  not  feed  the  hungry, 
nor  clothe  the  naked,  llatcliffe  is  the  friend  of  my  heart : 
I  am  helpless  in  myself;  my  father,  though  just,  is  austere 
in  the  extreme  ;  I  dare  not  resort  to  him  for  money,  nor  can 
I  turn  my  thoughts  to  any  other  quarter  for  the  loan  of  a 
small  sum  in  this  extremity,  except  to  you. 

Sheva.  To  me  !  goot  lack  !  to  me  !  What  will  become 
of  me  ?  What  will  Sir  Stephen  say  ?  He  is  full  of  moneys  ; 
but  then,  again,  he  is  a  close  man  ;  very  austere,  as  you  say, 
and  very  just,  but  not  very  generous. 

Fred.     Well,  well,  let  me  have  your  answer. 

Sheva.  Yes,  yes,  but  my  answer  will  not  please  you 
without  the  moneys :  I  shall  be  a  Jewish  dog,  a  baboon,  an 
imp  of  Beelzebub,  if  I  don't  find  the  moneys,  and  when  my 
moneys  is  all  gone,  what  shall  I  be  then  'i  An  ass,  a  fool, 
a  jack-a-dandy  ! — Oh  dear  !  oh  dear  !  Well,  there  must  be 
conditions,  look  you. 

Fred.  To  be  sure ;  security  twice  secured  ;  premium 
and  interest,  and  bond  and  judgment  into  the  bargain. 
Only  enable  me  to  preserve  my  friend ;  give  me  that  trans- 
port, and  I  care  not  what  I  pay  for  it. 

Sheva.     Mercy  on  your  heart !  what  haste  and  hurry  you 


120  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

are  in !  How  much  did  you  want  ?  One  hundred  pounds, 
did  you  say  2 

Fred.     More  than  one,  more  than  one. 

Sheva.  Ah  !  poor  Sheva !  ~  More  than  one  hundred 
pounds;  what!  so  much  as  two  hundred  ?  'tis  a  great  deal 
of  moneys. 

Fred.  Come,  friend  Sheva,  at  one  word — three  hundred 
pounds. 

Sheva.     Mercies  defend  me,  what  a  sum  ! 

Fred.  Accommodate  me  with  three  hundred  pounds ; 
make  your  own  terms ;  consult  your  conscience  in  the  bar- 
gain, and  I  will  say  you  are  a  good  fellow.  Oh  !  Sheva ! 
did  you  but  know  the  luxury  of  relieving  honor,  innocence, 
and  beauty,  from  distress ! 

Sheva.  Oh!  'tis  great  luxury.  I  dare  say, else  you  would 
not  buy  it  at  so  high  a  price.  Well,  well,  welH  I  have 
thought  a  little,  and  if  you  will  come  to  my  poor  cabin  in 
Duke's  Place^  you  shall  have  the  moneys. 

Fred.  Well  said,  my  gallant  Sheva !  Shall  I  bring  a 
bond  with  me  to  fill  up? 

Sheva.     No,  no,  no  ;  we  have  all  those  in  my  shop. 

Fred.     I  don't  doubt  it :  all   the  apparatus  of  an  usurer. 

t  Aside.']     Farewell,  Sheva  !  be  ready  with  your  instruments, 
care  not  what  they  are  :  only  let  me  have  the  money,  and 
you  may  proceed  to  dissection  as  soon  after  as  you  please. 

lExit.] 
Sheva.  Heigho !  I  cannot  choose  but  weep.  Sheva,  thou 
art  a  fool.  Three  hundred  pounds,  by  the  day,  how  much 
is  that  in  the  year? — Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  I  shall  be  ruined, 
starved,  wasted  to  a  torch-light.  Bowels,  you  shall  pinch 
for  this  :  I'll  not  eat  flesh  this  fortnight :  I'll  suck  the  air 
for  nourishment:  I'll  feed  upon  the  steam  of  an  alderman's 
kitchen,  as  I  put  my  nose  down  his  area.  Well,  well  I  but 
soft,  a  word,  friend  Sheva  !  Art  thou  not  rich,  monstrous 
rich,  abominably  rich  '1  and  yet  thou  livest  on  a  crust.  Be 
it  so  !  thou  dost  stint  thine  appetites  to  pamper  thine  affec- 
tions ;  thou  dost  make  thyself  to  live  in  poverty,  that  the 
poor  may  live  in  plenty.  Well,  well !  so  long  as  thou  art  a 
miser  only  to  thine  own  cost,  thou  mayst  hug  thyself  in 
this  poor  habit,  and  set  the  world's  contempt  at  naught. 
[E?tter  Charles  RatcHffe,  not  noticing  the  Jew.] 
Char.  Unfeehng,  heartless  man,  I've  done  with  you.  I'll 
dig,  beg,  perish, rather  than  submit  to  such  unnatural  terms! 
[  may  remain  :  my  mother  and  my  sister  must  be  banished 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  121 

to  a  distance.  Why,  this  Jew,  this  usurer,  this  enemy  to 
our  faith,  whose  heart  is  in  his  bags,  would  not  have  used 
me  thus— I'll  question  him.     Sheva  ! 

Sheva.     What  is  your  pleasure ? 

Char.     I  do  not  know  the  word. 

Sheva.     What  is  your  will,  then?     Speak  it. 

Char.  Sheva ! — You  have  been  a  son — you  had  a  mother 
— dost  remember  her  ? 

SJieva,     Goot  lack,  goot  lack !  do  I  remember  her  ! — 

Char.     Didst  love  her,  cherish  her,  support  her  \ 

Sheva.  Ah  me  !  ah  me  !  it  is  as  much  as  my  poor  heart 
will  bear  to  think  of  her.     I  would  have  died — 

Char.     Thou  hast  affections,  feelings,  charities — 

Slieva.     I  am  a  man,  sir  ;  call  me  how  you  please. 

Char.  I'll  call  you  Christian,  then,  and  this  proud  mer- 
chant, Jew. 

Slieva.     I  shall  not  thank  you  for  that  compliment. 

Char.     And  hadst  thou  not  a  sister,  too  1 

Sheva.  No  ;  no  sister,  no  broder,  no  son,  no  daughter , 
I  am  a  solitary  being,  a  waif  on  the  world's  wide  common. 

Char.  And  thou  hast  hoarded  wealth,  till  thou  art  sick 
with  gold,  even  to  plethora  Thy  bags  run  over  with  the 
spoils  of  usury,  thy  veins  are  glutted  with  the  blood  of 
prodigals  and  gamesters. 

Sheva.     I  have  enough  :  something,  perhaps,  to  spare. 

Char.  And  I  have  nothing,  nothing  to  spare  but  miseries, 
with  which  my  measure  overflows.  By  heaven,  it  racks  my 
soul  to  think  that  those  beloved  sufferers  should  want,  and 
this  thing  so  abound !  [Aside.]  Now,  Sheva,  now,  if  you 
and  I  were  out  of  sight  of  man,  benighted  in  some  desert, 
wild  as  my  thoughts,  naked  as  my  fortune,  should  you  not 
tremble  ? 

Sheva.  What  should  I  tremble  for?  You  could  not 
harm  a  poor,  defenseless,  aged  man  ? 

Char.  Indeed,  indeed,  I  could  not  harm  you,  Sheva, 
whilst  I  retained  my  senses. 

Sheva.  Sorrow  disturbs  them  :  yes,  yes,  it  is  sorrow. 
Ah  me,  ah  me  !  poor  Sheva  in  his  time  has  been  driven  mad 
with  sorrow.     'Tis  a  hard  world. 

Char.  Sir,  I  have  done  you  wrong.  You  pity  me,  I'm 
pnre  you  do :  those  tones  could  never  proceed  but  from  a 
fieling  heart. 

Sheva.     Try  me,  touch  me,  I  am  not  made  of  marble. 

Char.     No,  on  my  life  you  are  not. 
11 


122  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOOaES. 

Sheva.  Nor  yet  of  g-old  extorted  from  the  prodigal ;  I 
am  no  shark  to  prey  upon  mankind.  What  I  have  got,  1 
have  got  by  little  and  little,  working  hard  and  pinching  my 
own  bowels.  I  could  say  something:  it  is  in  my  thought: 
but  no  I  will  not  say  it  here.  This  is  the  house  of  trade ; 
that  is  not  to  my  purpose.  Come  home  with  me,  so  please 
you ;  'tis  but  a  little  walk,  and  you  shall  see  what  I  have 
shown  to  no  man — Sheva's  real  heart :  I  do  not  carry  it  in 
my  hand.     Come,  I  pray  you,  come  along.         [^EQceunt.'\ 

Scene  2. — Sheva's  house. 

[global  discovered.     Enter  Sheva  and  Charles  Ratcliffe.'\ 

SJieva.  So,  so,  so !  What's  here  to  do  with  you  ?  Why 
are  you  not  at  your  work  ?  Jabal,  a  cup  of  cold  water  ;  I 
am  very  thirsty. 

Jabal.     Are  you  not  rather  hungry  too,  sir? 

Sheika.  Hold  your  tongue,  puppy !  Get  about  your  busi- 
ness :  and,  here,  take  my  hat,  clean  it  carefully;  but  mind 
you,  do  not  brush  it ;  that  will  wear  off  the  nap. 

Jabal.     The  nap,  indeed  !     There  is  no  shelter  for  a  flea. 

\_Exit.'\ 

Sheva.  Aha  !  I'm  tired.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Rat- 
cliffe.  I  am  an  old  man  Sit  you  down,  I  pray  you  ;  sit 
you  down,  and  we  will  talk  a  little.  [Jabal  brings  a  glass 
of  ivater.~\  So,  so  that  is  right.  Water  is  goot.  Fie  upon 
you,  Jabal !  why  do  you  not  offer  the  glass  to  my  guest,  be- 
fore me  ? 

Jabal.     Lord  love  him  !  I'd  give  him  wine,  if  I  had  it. 

Sheva.  No,  no,  it  is  goot  water ;  it  is  better  than  wine : 
wine  is  heating,  water  is  cooling:  wine  costs  moneys,  water 
comes  for  nothing.  Your  goot  health,  sir  !  Oh  !  'tis  deli- 
cious, it  is  satisfying  :  I  was  very  empty  before  :  my  stomach 
was  craving  ;  now  I  am  quite  content.  Go  your  ways,  Ja- 
bal;  go  your  ways.  [Exit  Jabal.~\  Sir,  I  have  nothing  to 
ask  you  to,  but  that  water  which  you  would  not  drink; 
'twas  very  goot  water,  notwithstanding.  Ah  !  Mr.  Ilatcliffe, 
I  must  be  very  saving  now.     I  must  pinch  close. 

CJuir.  For  what?  Are  you  not  rich  enough  to  allow 
>'0urse]f  the  common  comforts  of  life. 

Sheva.  Oh  yes,  oh  yes  !  I  am  rich,  to  be  sure.  Mercy 
on  me,  what  a  world  of  moneys  should  I  now  have,  if  I  had 
no  pity  in  my  heart !  But  it  melts,  and  melts,  or  else — oh! 
dear  me,  what  a  heap  it  would  have  been  ! 


seriolfs  and  sentimental.  121 

Char.  Pardon  me,  sir,  if  I  say  there  are  some  seeming 
contradictions  in  your  ciiaracter,  which  I  cannot  reconcile. 
You  give  away  your  money,  it  should  seem,  with  the  gener- 
osity of  a  prince,  and  I  hear  you  lament  over  it  in  the  lan- 
guage of  a  miser. 

S/ieva.  That  is  true  :  that  is  very  true  ;  I  love  my  mon- 
eys, I  do  love  them  dearly :  but  I  love  my  fellow-creatures 
a  little  better. 

Char.  Seeing  you  are  so  charitable  to  others,  why  can't 
you  spare  a  little  to  yourself 

Sheva.  Because  I  am  angry  with  myself  for  being  such 
a  baby,  a  child,  a  chicken.  Your  people  do  not  love  me; 
what  business  have  I  to  love  your  people?  I  am  a  Jew  ; 
my  fathers,  up  to  Abraham,  all  were  Jews.  Merciless  man- 
kind, how  have  you  persecuted  them !  My  family  is  all 
gone  ;  it  is  extinct.  My  very  name  will  vanish  out  of  mem- 
ory when  1  am  dead.  I  pray  you,  pardon  me,  I  am  very 
old,  and  apt  to  weep  ;  I  pray  you,  pardon  me. 

Char.  I  am  more  disposed  to  subscribe  to  your  tears, 
than  to  find  fault  with  them. 

Sheva.  Well,  well,  well,  'tis  natural  for  me  to  weep  when 
I  reflect  upon  their  sufferings  and  my  own.  Sir,  j^ou  shall 
know — but  I  won't  tell  you  my  sad  story:  you  are  young 
and  tender-hearted  ;  it  is  all  written  down — you  shall  find  it 
with  my  papers  at  my  death 

Char.     Sir,  at  your  death  ? 

Sheva.  Yes.  Sure  I  must  die  some  time  or  other. 
Though  you  have  saved  my  life  once,  you  cannot  save  it 
always.  I  did  tell  you,  Mr.  Ratcliffe,  I  would  show  you 
my  heart.  Sir,  it  is  a  heart  to  do  you  all  possible  goot 
whilst  I  live,  and  to  pay  you  the  debt  of  gratitude,  when  I 
die.  I  believe  it  is  the  only  one  I  owe  to  the  pure  benevo- 
lence of  my  fellow-creatures. 

Char.     I  am  sorry  you  have  found  mankind  &o  ungrateful. 

Sheva.     Not  so.  not  so ;    T  might  perhaps   have   found 
them  grateful,  if  I  had  let  them  know  their  benefactor.     I 
did   relieve  their  wants,  but  I   did  not  court  their  thanks : 
they  did  eat  my  bread,  and  hooted  at  me  for  a  miser. 
[Enter  Jabal^ 

Jabal.  A  gentleman,  who  says  his  name  is  Bertram, 
waits  to  speak  with  you.  I  fancy  he  comes  to  borrow 
money,  for  he  looks  wondrous  melancholy. 

Sheva.  Hold  your  tongue,  knave  ;  what  is  it  to  you  what 
Le  comes  for? 


124  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Jahal.  I'm  sure  he  does  not  come  for  a  dinner,  for  he  has 
not  brouffht  it  with  him. 

Sheva.  1  pray  you,  Mr.  Ratcliffe,  pass  out  that  way  1 
would  not  have  you  both  meet.  [Exit  Ratcliffe.]  Admit 
Mr.  Bertram.  [Exit  Jah(d.\ 

[Re-enter  Jabal^  introducing  Frederick^  tlicn  crosses  behind 
and  exit.] 

Sheva.  You  are  welcome,  Mr.  Bertram :  our  business 
may  quickly  be  despatched.  You  want  three  hundred 
pounds ;  I  have  made  shift  to  scrape  that  sum  together,  and 
it  is  ready  for  you. 

Fred.  Alas  !  Sheva,  since  last  I  saw  you,  I  am  so  totally 
undone,  that  it  would  now  be  robbery  to  take  your  money. 
My  father  h  is  expelled  me  from  his  house. 

Sheva.     Why?  for  what  cause  ? 

Fred.     I  have  married — 

Sheva.     Weil,  that  is  natural  enough. 

Fred.     Married  without  his  knowledge. 
'     Sheva.     So  did  he  without  yours.     What  besides? 

Fred.     Married  a  wife  without  a  farthing. 

Sheva.     Ah  !  that  is  very  silly,  I  must  say. 

Fred.     You  could  not  say  so,  did  you  know  the  lady. 

Sheva.  That  may  be  ;  but  I  do  not  know  the  lady ;  you 
have  not  named  her  to  me. 

Fred.     The  sister  of  Charles  Ratcliffe. 

Sheva.  Ah !  to  Miss  Ratcliffe  ?  Is  it  so  1  And  she  is 
goot  and  lovely ;  but  she  has  no  moneys ;  and  that  has 
made  your  fader  very  angry  with  you  ? 

Fred.     Furious,  irreconcilable. 

Sheva.  Why,  truly,  moneys  is  a  very  goot  thing ;  and 
your  fader  is  not  the  only  man  in  England  who  does  think 
so.  I  confess  I  am  very  much  of  his  mind  in  respect  to 
moneys. 

Fred.  I  know  you  are  ;  therefore,  keep  your  money,  and 
good  morning  to  you. 

Sheva.  Hold,  hold !  be  not  so  hasty.  If  I  do  love  my 
moneys,  it  may  be  because  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  tender 
them  to  you. 

Fred.  But  I  have  said  I  never  can  repay  you,  whilst 
you  are  in  this  world. 

Sheva.  Perhaps  I  shall  be  content  to  be  repayed  when 
I  am  out  of  it.  1  believe  I  have  a  pretty  many  post  obits 
cf  that  sort  upon  the  file. 

Fred.     I  do  not  rightly  understand  you. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  125 

Sheca.  Then  pray  have  a  little  patience  till  I  am' better 
understood.     Sir  Stephen  had  a  match  for  you  in  view  ? 

Frel.     He  had. 

Sheva.     What  was  the  lady's  fortune  ? 

Fred.     Ten  thousand  pounds. 

S/ieva  That  is  a  goot  round  sum  ;  but  you  did  not  love 
her,  and  you  do  love  your  wife. 

Fred.     As  dearly  as  you  love  your  money. 

Sheva.  A  little  better,  we  will  hope,  for  I  do  lend  my 
moneys  to  my  friend.  For  instance,  take  these  bills ;  three 
hundred  pounds. — What  ails  you?  They  are  goot  bills, 
they  are  bank — oh  !  that  I  had  a  sack  full  of  them  !  They 
will  hire  you  very  pretty  lodging,  and  you  will  be  very  happy 
with  your  pretty  wife.  I  pray  you,  take  them.  Why  will 
you  be  so  hard  with  a  poor  Jew,  as  to  refuse  him  a  goot 
bargam,  when  you  know  he  loves  to  lay  his  moneys  out  to 
profit  and  advantage? 

Fred.     Are  you  in  earnest?     You  astonish  me. 

Sheva.  I  am  a  little  astonished  too,  for  I  did  never  see 
a  man  so  backward  to  take  moneys :  you  are  not  like  your 
fader.     I  am  afraid  you  are  a  little  proud. 

Fred.  You  shall  not  say  so.  I  accept  your  generous 
tender. 

Sheva.  I  wish  it  was  ten  thousand  pounds,  then  your 
goot  fader  would  be  well  content. 

Fred.  Yes;  of  two  equal  fortunes,  I  believe  he  would 
be  good  enough  to  let  me  take  my  choice. 

Sheva.  Oh  !  that  is  very  kind  :  he  would  give  you  the 
preference  when  he  had  none  himself 

Fred.  Just  so  ;  but  what  acknowledgment  shall  I  give 
you  for  these  bills  ? 

Sheva.  None,  none  ;  I  do  acknowledge  them  myself  with 
very  great  pleasure  in  serving  you,  and  no  small  pains  in 
parting  from  them.  I  pray  you,  make  yourself  and  pretty 
wife  comfortable  with  the  moneys,  and  I  will  comfort  myself. 
as  well  as  I  can,  without  them.  Ah  !  poor  Sheva !  when 
thou  art  a  beggar-man,  who  will  take  pity  of  thee  ?— Well, 
well,  no  matter !  Now  I  must  take  a  little  walk  about  my 
business.     I  pray  you.  pardon  my  unpoliteness. 

Fred.  No  apology  :  I  am  gone.  Farewell,  Sheva.  Thou 
H  miser  !  thou  art  a  prince  !     [Exit.] 

Sheva.     Jabal !  open  the  door.     \_Exit.] 
11* 


126  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


Scene  8. — Sir  Stephen  Bertram's  House. 

[^Enter  Sir  Stejyhen  Bertram  and  Saunders.'] 

Sir  S.  Well,  Saunders,  what  news  have  you  been  able 
to  collect  of  my  undutiful  son  ? 

Saun.  I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Bertram,  but  I  am  told  he 
has  settled  himself  in  very  handsome  lodgings,  and  is  gone 
to  remove  his  lady  to  them. 

Sir  S.  His  lady,  do  you  call  her  1  Can  you  find  no  fit- 
ter term  ?  Where  should  he  get  the  means  to  settle  ?  He 
was  not  furnished  with  them  by  me:  who  else  will  do  it? 
If  he  attempts  to  raise  money  upon  expectancies^  be  it  at 
their  peril  who  are  fools  enough  to  lend  him ;  no  prudent 
man  will  be  his  bubble.  If  I  were  sure  that  was  his  prac- 
tice, I  should  hold  it  matter  of  conscience  to  advertise 
against  his  debts. 

Saun.  Perhaps  there  may  be  some  persons  in  the  world, 
who  think  you  will  not  always  hold  out  against  an  only 
son. 

Sir  S.  Then  let  those  persons  smart  for  their  opinion. 
They  little  know  the  feeling  of  an  injured  father;  they  can- 
not calculate  my  hopes,  my  disappointments,  my  regret. 
He  might  have  had  a  lady  with  an  ample  fortune.  A  wife 
without  a  shilling  is  —but  what  avails  complaint  ?  Could 
you  learn  nothing  further — who  supplies  him,  who  holds 
him  up? 

Saun.     I  hear  that  he  had  money  of  your  broker,  Sheva. 

Sir  S.  That  must  be  false  intelligence.  He  will  as  soon 
make  gold  by  transmutation,  as  wring  it  from  the  gripe  of 
that  old  usurer.  No,  no,  Sheva  is  too  wary,  too  much  a  Jew, 
to  help  him  with  a  shilling. 

Saun.  Yet  I  was  so  informed  by  his  servant,  Jabal. 
He  says,  Mr.  Bertram  came  to  old  Sheva's  house  by  appoint- 
ment ;  that  he  overheard  their  whole  conversation,  in  which 
your  son  very  honorably  stated  the  utter  ruin  your  displeasure 
had  brought  upon  him,  and  would  have  refused  the  money, 
liut  that  old  Sheva  forced  it  upon  him. 

Sir  S.  It  mocks  all  belief:  it  only  proves  that  Sheva, 
the  most  inveterate  miser  in  existence,  has  a  fellow  Jew  for 
his  servant,  one  of  the  completest  liars  in  creation. 

Satm.  i  am  apt  to  give  him  credit  for  the  fact,  notwith- 
standing. 

Sir  S.     Then  give  me  leave  to  say,  you  have  more  faith 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  127 

than  most  men  living.     "Were  I  to  give  so  much  credit.  Mr. 
Saunders,  T  should  soon  stop. 

Siiun.  1  am  not  quite  so  fixed  in  my  persuasion  of  old 
Sheva's  character,  as  you  are.  In  his  dealings,  all  the  world 
knows  he  is  punctually  honest ;  no  man's  character  stands 
higher  in  the  All  y  :  and  his  servant  tells  me,  though  he 
starves  himself,  he  is  secretly  very  charitable  to  others. 

Sir  S.  Yes,  this  you  may  believe,  if  you  are  disposed  to 
take  ^ne  Jew's  word  for  another  Jew's  character.  I  am  ob- 
stinate against  both  ;  and  if  he  has  supplied  the  money,  as  I 
am  sure  it  must  be  on  usurious  principles,  as  soon  as  ever  I 
have  the  old  misor  in  my  reach,  I  will  wring  either  the  truth 
from  his  lips,  or  the  life  out  of  his  carcass. 
\_Enter  SJieva.'\ 

Sheva.  How  does  my  worthy  master  1  I  am  your  very 
humble  servant,  goot  Sir  Stephen  Bertram.  I  have  a  little 
private  business  to  impart  to  you,  with  your  goot  leave,  aad 
if  your  leisure  serves. 

Sir  S.     Leave  us,  if  you  please.     [^Exit  Saunders.'] 

SJieva.  Aha  !  I  am  very  much  fatigued.  There  is  a  great 
throng  and  press  in  the  offices  at  the  Bank,  and  I  am  aged 
and  feeble. 

Sir  S.  Hold,  sir.  Before  I  welcome  you  within  these 
doors,  or  suffer  you  to  sit  down  in  my  presence,  I  demand  to 
know,  explicitly,  and  without  prevarication,  if  you  have  fur- 
nished my  son  with  money  secretly,  and  without  my  leave? 

Sheva.  If  I  do  lend,  ought  I  not  to  lend  in  secret?  If 
I  do  not  ask  your  leave,  Sir  Stephen,  may  I  not  dispose  ot 
my  own  moneys  according  to  my  own  liking?  But  if  it  is 
a  crime,  I  do  wish  to  ask  you  who  is  my  accuser?  That,  1 
believe,  is  justice  everywhere  ;  and  in  your  happy  country  I 
do  think  it  is  the  law  likewise. 

Sir  S.  Very  well,  sir  ;  you  shall  have  both  law  and  jus- 
tice. The  information  comes  from  your  own  servant.  Jabal. 
Can  you  controvert  it? 

Slwva.  I  do  presume  to  say,  my  servant  ought  not  to  re- 
port his  master's  secrets ;  but  I  will  not  say  he  has  not  spoken 
the  truth. 

Sir  S.     Then  you  confess  the  fact. 

Sheva.  I  humbly  think  there  is  no  call  for  that :  you  have 
the  information  from  my  footboy.     I  do  not  deny  it. 

Sir  S.     And  the  sum  — 

S/^eva.  I  do  not  talk  of  the  sum.  Si""  Stephen,  that  is  not 
my  practice  ;  neither,  under  favor,  is  my  footboy  my  cashier. 


128  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

If  he  be  a  knave,  and  listen  at  my  key-hole,  the  more  shame 
his  ;   I  am  not  in  the  fault. 

Sir  S.  Not  in  the  fault !  Wretch,  miser,  usurer  !  You 
never  yet  let  loose  a  single  guinea  from  your  gripe,  but  with 
a  view  of  doubling  it  at  the  return.     I  know  what  you  are. 

Sheva.  Indeed  !  it  is  more  than  T  will  say  of  myself  I 
pray  you,  goot  Sir  Stephen,  take  a  little  time  to  know  my 
heart,  before  you  rob  me  of  my  reputation.  I  am  a  Jew,  a 
poor  defenseless  Jew ;  that  is  enough  to  make  me  miser, 
usurer.     Alas  !  I  cannot  help  it. 

Sir  S.  No  matter :  you  are  caught  in  your  own  trap.  I 
tell  you  now,  my  son  is  ruined,  disinherited,  undone.  One 
consolation  is,  that  you  have  lost  your  money. 

Sheva.  If  that  be  a  consolation,  you  are  very  welcome  to 
it.     If  my  moneys  are  lost,  my  motives  are  not. 

Sir  S.  I'll  never  pay  one  farthing  of  his  debts.  He  has 
emended  me  for  life ;  refused  a  lady  with  ten  thousand  pounds, 
and  married  a  poor  miss  without  a  doit. 

Sheva.     Yes,  I  do  understand  your  son  is  married. 

Sir  S.  Do  you  so?  By  the  same  token  I  understand 
you  to  be  a  villain. 

Sheva.  Aha!  that  is  a  very  bad  word;  villain!  I  did 
never  think  to  hear  that  word  from  one  who  says  he  knows 
me.  I  pray  you,  now,  permit  me  to  speak  to  you  a  word  or 
two  in  my  own  defense.  I  have  done  great  deal  of  business 
for  you,  Sir  Stephen  ;  have  put  a  pretty  deal  of  moneys  in 
your  pocket  by  my  pains  and  labors  ;  I  did  never  wrong  you 
of  one  sixpence  in  my  life;  I  was  content  with  my  lawful 
commission  ;  how  can  I  be  a  villain  ? 

Sir  S.     Do  you  not  uphold  the  son  against  the  father  ? 

Sheva.  I  do  uphold  the  son,  but  not  against  the  fader ; 
it  is  not  natural  to  suppose  the  oppressor  and  the  fader  one 
and  the  same  person.  I  did  see  your  son  struck  down  to 
the  ground  with  sorrow — cut  to  the  heart ;  I  did  not  stop  to 
ask  whose  hand  had  laid*him  low;  I  gave  him  mine,  and 
raised  him  up. 

Sir  S.     You  !  you  talk  of  charity  I 

SJieva.     I  do  not  talk  of  it :  I  feel  it. 

Sir  S.  What  claim  have  you  to  generosity,  humanity,  or 
any  manly  virtue  ?  Which  of  your  money-making  tribe  ever 
had  a  sense  of  pity  ?  Show  me  the  terms  on  which  you  have 
lent  this  money,  if  you  dare  !  Exhibit  the  dark  deed,  by 
which  you  have  meshed  your  victim  in  the  snares  of  usury; 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  129 

but  be  assured,  I'll  drag  you  to  the  light,  and  publish  your 
base  dealings  to  the  world.     ^Catches  him  by  tlie  sleeve.] 

S/ieva.  Take  your  hand  from  my  coat ;  my  coat  and  I 
are  very  old,  and  pretty  well  worn  out  together.  There, 
there  !  be  patient.  Moderate  your  passions,  and  you  shall 
see  my  terms  :  they  are  in  little  compass;  fair  dealings  may 
be  comprised  in  kw  words. 

Sir  S.     If  they  are  fair,  produce  them. 

Sheva.  Let  me  see,  let  me  see  !  Ah  !  poor  Sheva !  I  do 
so  tremble,  I  can  hardly  hold  my  papers.  So,  so !  Now  I 
am  right.     Aha !  here  it  is. 

Sir  S.     Let  me  see  it. 

Sheva.  Take  it.  \^Gives  a  paper.']  Do  you  not  see  it 
now  ?  Have  you  cast  your  eye  over  it?  Is  it  not  right  1  I 
am  no  more  than  broker,  look  you.  If  there  is  a  mistake, 
point  it  out,  and  I  will  correct  it. 

Sir  S.  \_Ilfads.]  Ten  thousand  pounds .^  invested  in  the 
three  par  cents  money .^  of  Eliza,  late  Ratclije.,  noiv  Bertram. 

Sheva.  Even  so.  A  pretty  tolerable  fortune  for  a  poor 
disinherited  son,  not  worth  one  penny. 

Sir  S.     I  am  thunderstruck  ! 

Slieva.  Are  you  so  ?  I  was  struck  too,  but  not  by  thun- 
der. And  what  has  Sheva  done  to  be  called  a  villain  ?  1 
am  a  Jew,  what  then  ?  Is  that  a  reason  none  of  my  tribe 
should  have  a  sense  of  pity?  You  have  no  great  deal  of 
pity  yourself,  but  I  do  know  many  noble  British  merchants 
that  abound  in  pity,  therefore  I  do  not  abuse  your  tribe. 

SirS.  I  am  confounded  and  ashamed  ;  I  see  my  fault, 
and  most  sincerely  ask  your  pardon. 

Slieva.  Goot  lack,  goot  lack  !  that  is  too  much.  I  pray 
you,  goot  Sir  Stephen,  say  no  more  ;  you  will  bring  the  blush 
upon  my  cheek,  if  you  demean  yourself  so  far  to  a  poor  Jew, 
who  is  your  very  humble  servant  to  command. 

Sir  S.     Did  my  son  know  Miss  Ratcliffe  had  this  fortune  ? 

Slieva.  When  ladies  are  so  handsome,  and  so  goot,  no 
generous  man  will  ask  about  their  fortune. 

Sir  S.     'Tis  plain  I  was  not  that  generous  man. 

Sheva.     No,  no  ;   you  did  ask  about  nothing  else. 

Sir  S.  But  how  in  the  name  of  wonder  did  she  come 
by  it? 

Sheva.  If  you  did  give  me  moneys  to  buy  stock,  would 
you  not  be  much  offended  were  I  to  ask  you  how  you  came 
by  it? 

H 


130  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Sir  S.  Her  brother  was  my  clerk.  I  did  not  think  he 
had  a  shilling  in  the  world. 

Sheva.  And  5'et  you  turned  him  upon  the  world,  where 
he  has  found  a  great  many  shillings.  The  world,  you  see. 
was  the  better  master  of  the  two.  Well,  Sir  Stephen,  I  will 
humbly  take  my  leave.  You  wished  your  son  to  marry  a 
lady  with  ten  thousand  pounds  ;  he  has  exactly  fulfilled  your 
wishes  :  I  do  presume  you  will  not  think  it  necessary  to  turn 
him  out  of  doors,  and  disinherit  him  for  that. 

Sir  S.  Go  on  !  I  merit  your  reproof  I  shall  hencefor- 
ward be  ashamed  to  look  you  or  my  son  in  the  face. 

Sheva.  To  look  me  in  the  face,  is  to  see  nothing  of  my 
heart ;  to  look  upon  your  son,  and  not  to  love  him,  I  should 
have  thought  had  been  impossible.  Sir  Stephen,  I  am  your 
very  humble  servant. 

Sir  S.     Farewell,  friend  Sheva  !     Can  you  forgive  me  ? 

Sheva.     I  can  forgive  my  enemy  ;  much  more,  my  friend. 

[Exeunt.'] 
Scene  4. — Sheva's  liouse. 
[Enter  Sir  S.  Bertram^  Frederick  Bertram,  and  Sheva.] 

Fred.  This,  father,  this  is  the  man.  My  benefactor — all 
mankind's.  The  widow's  friend,  the  orphan's  father,  the 
poor  man's  protector,  the  universal  philanthropist. 

Sheva.     Hush,  hush  !  you  make  me  hide  my  face. 

[Covers  his  face  with  his  ] bands.] 

Fred.  Ah,  sir  !  'tis  now  too  late  to  cover  your  good  deeds. 
You  have  long  masked  your  charities  beneath  this  humble 
seeming,  and  shrunk  back  from  actions  princes  might  have 
gloried  in.  You  must  now  face  the  world,  and  transfer  the 
blush  from  your  own  cheeks  to  theirs,  whom  prejudice  had 
taught  to  scorn  you.  For  your  single  sake  we  must  reform 
our  hearts,  and  inspire  them  with  candor  toward  your  whole 
nation. 

Sheva.  Enough,  enough  !  more  than  enough  !  I  p  ay 
you  spare  me :  I  am  not  used  to  hear  the  voice  of  praise, 
and  it  oppresses  me:  I  should  not  know  myself  if  you  wevQ 
to  describe  me :  I  have  a  register  within,  in  which  these 
merits  are  not  noted.  Simply,  I  am  an  honest  man,  no 
more  ;  fair  in  my  dealings,  as  my  goot  patron  here,  I  hope, 
can  witness. 

Sir  S.  Ah !  now  the  mystery's  solved.  The  ten  thou- 
sand pounds  were  yours  ;  give  them  to  Ratcliffe ;  I  am 
ashamed  of  my  own  conduct;  am  satisfied  with  my  son's; 
above  all,  I  have  seen  his  sweet  Eliza,  and  she  will  derive 
nothing  from  fortune,  where  nature  has  given  so  much. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTTMFATAL.  131 

Shcva.  That  is  a  noble  speech;  but  moneys  does  not  les- 
sen merit,  at  least  not  always,  as  I  hope,  for  Mr.  RatclifFe's 
sake,  for  he  is  heir  oi  all  that  I  possess. 

aSzV  S.  I  trust  that  Mr.  RatclifFe  will  remember  to  whom 
he  owes  this  happiness,  and  emulate  his  benefactor's  virtues. 

Fied.  The  treasure  that  integrity  has  collected,  cannot 
be  better  lodged  than  in  the  hands  of  honor. 

Sir  S.     It  is  a  mine  of  wealth. 

Sheva.  Excuse  me,  goot  Sir  Stephen  :  it  is  not  a  mine, 
for  it  was  never  out  of  sight  of  those  who  searched  for  it. 
The  poor  man  did  not  dig  to  find  it ;  and  where  I  now  be- 
stow it,  it  will  be  found  by  him  again.  I  do  not  bury  it  in 
a  synagogue,  or  any  other  pile ;  I  do  not  waste  it  upon  van- 
ity, or  public  works ;  I  leave  it  to  a  charitable  heir,  and  build 
my  hospital  in  the  human  heart.  [Exeunt.'] 


XXXIII. -FROM  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAKE.— -STco^. 

KING   JAMES RODERIC    DHU. 

Scene — A  rock,  with  a  watch-fire  burning  near  it.  A  Scotch  High- 
lander, Roderic  Dhu,  wrapped  in  his  tartan,  is  discovered  sleeping 
by  it. 

[Enter  King  James  in  a  ivarrior''s  garb.] 

Roderic.    [  Grasping  his  sword  and  springing  on  his  fret.  ] 
Thy  name  and  purpose,  Saxon  ? — Stand  ! 

James.     A  stranger. 

Hod.     What  dost  thou  require  ? 

James,     llest  and  a  guide,  and  food  and  fire. 
My  life's  beset,  my  path  is  lost. 
The  gale  has  chilled  my  limbs  with  frost. 

Rod.     Art  thou  a  friend  to  Roderic  ? 

James.     No. 

Rod.     Thou  durst  not  call  thyself  his  foe  ? 

James.     1  dare  to  him  and  all  the  band 
He  brings  to  aid  his  murderous  hand. 

Rod.     Bold  words  !     But,  though  the  beast  of  game 
The  privilege  of  chase  may  claim ; 
Though  space  and  law  the  stag  we  lend, 
Ere  hound  we  slip,  or  bow  we  bend. 
Who  ever  cared  where,  how,  or  when 
The  proxVling  fox  was  trapped  or  slain  % 


132  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Thus  treacherous  scouts, — yet  sure  they  lie, 
Who  say  thou  comest  a  secret  spy. 

James.     They  do^  by  Heaven  !     Come  Roderic  Dhu, 
And  of  his  clan  the  boldest  two, 
And,  let  me  but  till  morning  rest, 
I'll  write  the  falsehood  on  their  crest. 

Rod.     If  by  the  blaze  I  mark  aright. 
Thou  bearest  the  belt  and  spur  of  knight. 

James.     Then  by  these  tokens  mayst  thou  know- 
Each  proud  oppressor's  mortal  foe. 

Rod.     Enough,  enough  ;  sit  down  and  share 
A  soldier's  couch^  a  soldier's  fare. 

Sjrhey  sit  down  and  eat  together .^  and  in  a  few  minutes 
t}te  soldier  continues  the  conversation!] 

Rod.     Stranger,  I  am  to  Rhoderic  Dhu, 
A  clansman  born,  a  kinsman  true ; 
Each  word  against  his  honor  spoke, 
Demands  of  me  avenging  stroke. 
It  rests  with  me  to  wind  my  horn, 
Thou  art  with  numbers  overborne  ; 
It  rests  with  me,  here,  brand  to  brand, 
Worn  as  thou  art,  to  bid  thee  stand ; 
^But  not  for  clan,  nor  kindred's  cause, 
^Will  I  depart  from  honor's  laws. 
To  assail  a  wearied  man  were  shame, 
And  Stranger  is  a  holy  name. 
Guidance  and  rest,  and  food  and  fire, 
In  vain  he  never  must  require. 
Myself  will  guide  thee  on  the  way. 
Through  watch  and  ward  till  break  of  day, 
As  far  as  Coilantogle  ford ; 
From  thence  thy  warrant  is  thy  sword. 

James.     I  take  thy  courtesy,  by  Heaven, 
As  freely  as  'tis  nobly  given. 

Rod.     Why  seek  these  wilds,  traversed  by  few. 
Without  a  pass  from  lloderic  Dhu  ? 

James.     Brave  man,  my  pass,  in  danger  tried. 
Hangs  in  my  belt,  and  by  my  side. 
Yet  sooth  to  tell,  though  naught  1  dread, 
I  dreamed  not  now  to  claim  its  aid. 
When  here  but  three  days  since  I  came, 
Bewildered  in  pursuit  of  game, 
All  seemed  as  peaceful  and  as  still, 
As  the  mist  slumbering  on  yon  hill. 


SERIOUS    AXU    SENTIMENTAL.  IS'A 

Thy  dangerous  chief  was  then  afar, 
Nor  soon  expected  back  from  war ; 
Thus  said,  at  least,  my  mountain  guide, 
Though  deep,  perchance,  the  villain  lied. 

Rod.     Yet,  why  a  second  venture  try  ? 

James.     A  warrior,  thou,  and  ask  me  why? 
Perhaps  I  sought  to  drive  away 
The  lazy  hours  of  peaceful  day ; 
Slight  cause  will  then  suffice  to  guide 
A  knight's  free  footsteps  far  and  wide ; 
A  falcon  flown,  a  greyhound  strayed, 
The  merry  glance  of  mountain  maid  ; 
Or,  if  a  path  be  dangerous  known, 
The  danger's  self  is  lure  alone. 

Rod.     Thy  secret  keep  ;  I  urge  thee  not. 
Yet,  ere  again  you  sought  this  spot. 
Say,  heard  you  not  of  lowland  war, 
Against  Clan  Alpine  raised  by  Mar  ? 

James.     No,  by  my  word  ;  of  bands  prepared 
To  guard  King  James's  sports  I  heard ; 
Nor  doubt  I  aught,  but,  when  they  hear 
This  muster  of  the  Mountaineer, 
Their  pennons  will  abroad  be  flung. 
Which  else  in  Doune  had  peaceful  hung. 

Rod.     Free  be  they  flung  !  for  we  are  loath 
Their  silken  folds  should  feed  the  moth. 
Free  be  they  flung !  as  free  shall  wave 
Clan  Alpine's  pine  in  banner  brave. 
But,  stranger,  peaceful  since  you  came, 
Bewildered  in  the  mountain  game, 
Whence  the  bold  boast,  by  which  we  know 
Yich  Alpine's  vowed  and  mortal  foe  ? 

James.     Warrior,  but  yester  morn,  I  knew 
Naught  of  thy  chieftain,  Roderic  Dhu, 
Save  as  an  outlawed,  desperate  man, 
The  chief  of  a  rebellious  clan, 
Who  in  the  regent's  court  and  sight. 
With  ruffian  dagger  stabbed  a  knight. 
Yet  this  alone  should  from  his  part 
Sever  each  true  and  loyal  heart. 

Rod.     [Fwioning^  and  both  rising  hastily. '\ 
And  heardst  thou  why  he  drew  his  blade  ? 
Heardst  thou,  that  shameful  word,  and  blow 
Brought  Iloderic's  vengeance  on  his  foe  ? 
12 


134  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUEB. 

What  recked  the  chieftain,  if  he  stood 
On  highland  heath  or  Holy  Rood  ? 
He  rights  such  wrong  where  it  is  given, 
Though  it  were  in  the  court  of  heaven. 

James,.     Still  it  was  outrage  ;  yet,  'tis  true, 
Not  then  claimed  sovereignty  his  due ; 
The  young  king,  mewed  in  Stirling  tower, 
Was  stranger  to  respect  and  power. 
But  then  thy  chieftain's  robber  life. 
Winning  mean  prey  by  causeless  strife, 
Wrenching  from  ruined  lowland  swain 
His  flocks  and  harvest  reared  in  vain — 
Me  thinks  a  soul,  like  thine,  should  scorn 
The  spoils  from  such  foul  conflict  borne. 

Kod.     Saxon,  from  yonder  mountain  high, 
I  marked  thee  send  delighted  eye, 
O'er  waving  fields  and  pastures  green, 
With  gentle  slopes,  and  groves  between ; 
These  fertile  plains,  that  softened  vale. 
Were  once  the  birthright  of  the  Gael. 
The  Saxons  came  with  iron  hand. 
And  from  our  fathers  reft  the  land. 
Where  dwell  we  now?  see  rudely  swell 
Crag  over  crag,  and  fell  o'er  fell. 
'Ask  we  this  savage  hill  we  tread, 
For  fattened  steer,  or  household  bread ; 
Ask  we  for  flocks  these  shingles  drj^ 
And  well  the  mountain  might  reply : 
'•  To  you,  as  to  your  sires  of  yore, 
Belong  the  target  and  claymore  ! 
I  give  you  shelter  in  my  breast. 
Your  own  good  blades  must  do  the  rest." 
Pent  in  this  fortress  of  the  north, 
Thinkst  thou  we  will  not  sally  forth 
To  spoil  the  spoiler  as  we  may. 
And  from  the  robber  rend  the  prey? 
Ay,  by  my  soul !   while  on  yon  plain 
The  Saxon  rears  one  shock  A  grain  ; 
While  of  ten  thousand  herds,  there  strays 
But  one  along  yon  river's  maze — 
The  Gael,  of  plain  and  river  heir. 
Shall,  with  strong  hand   redeem  his  share. 
Where  live  the  mountain  chiefs,  who  hold 
That  plundering  lowland  field  and  fold, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  1  ;J5 

Is  aught  but  re  ribiition  due? — 
Seek  other  cause  'gainst  Roderic  Dhu. 

James.  And  if  I  sought, 

Thinkst  thou  no  other  could  be  brought? 
What  deem  ye,  of  my  path  waylaid, 
My  life  given  o'er  to  ambuscade  ? 

Rod.     As  a  reward  to.  rashness  due  ; 
Hadst  thou  sent  warning  fair  and  true. 
Free  hadst  thou  been  to  come  and  go ; 
But  secret  path  marks  secret  foe. 

James.     Well,  let  it  pass  ;  nor  will  I  now 
Fresh  cause  of  enmity  avow, 
To  chafe  thy  mood  and  cloud  thy  brow. 
Enough,  I  am  by  promise  tied 
To  match  me  wilh  this  man  of  pride. 
Twice  have  I  sought  Clan  Alpine's  glen 
In  peace;   but,  when  I  come  again, 
I  come  with  banner,  brand,  and  bow. 
As  leader  seeks  his  mor!al  foe. 
For  love-lorn  swain  in  lady's  bower, 
Ne'er  panted  for  the  appointed  hour, 
As  I,  until  before  me  stand 
This  rebel  chieftain  and  his  band. 

Rod.     Have  then  thy  wish.      \He  whistles^  and  soldiers 
rush  in  on  all  sides.'\     How  sayest  thou  now  ? 
These  are  Clan  Alpine's  warriors  true  ; 
And,  Saxon,  I  am  Roderic  Dhu. 


[King  James  siarU  hack  a  little,  then  draws  his  sword 
and  places  his  hack  against  the  rock.^ 


136  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

James.     Come  one,  come  all  !  this  rock  shall  fly 
From  its  firm  base,  as  soon  as  I. 

[Roderic  waves  his  ha?id^  and  the  soldia  *  retire.'\ 

Rod.     Fear  not,  nay   that  I  need  not  say. 
But  doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 
Thou  art  my  guest,  I  pledged  my  word 
As  far  as  Coilantogle  ford. 
So  move  we  on  ;  I  only  meant 
To  sho\^^  the  reed  on  which  you  leant. 
Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderic  l)hu. 
Bold  Saxon  !  to  his  promise  just, 
Vich  Alpine  shall  discharge  his  trust. 
This  murderous  chief,  this  ruthless  man. 
This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan, 
Will  lead  thee  safe  through  watch  and  ward, 
Far  past  Clan  Alpine's  outmost  guard  ; 
Then  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 
A  chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 

James.     I  ne'er  delayed 
When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade ; 
Nay,  more,  brave  chief,  I  vowed  thy  death ; 
Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith. 
And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 
A  better  meed  have  well  deserved ; 
Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone  % 
Are  there  no  means  ? 

Rod.     No,  stranger,  none  ! 

James.     Nay,  first  to  James  at  Stirling  go. 
When,  if  thou  wilt  be  still  his  foe, 
Or  if  the  king  shall  not  agree 
To  grant  thee  grace  and  favor  free, 
I  plight  mine  honor,  oath,  and  word. 
That  to  thy  native  holds  restored, 
With  each  advantage  shalt  thou  stand, 
That  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land. 

Rod.     Thy  rash  presumption  now  shall  rue 
The  homage  named  to  Roderic  Dhu. 
He  yields  not,  he,  to  man  nor  fate — 
Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate  ! 
My  clansmen's  wrongs  demand  revenge. 
Not  yet  prepared  !  by  Heaven  I  I  change 
My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valor  light 
As  that  of  some  vain  carpet  knight, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  187 

Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care, 
And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 

A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair         [Fointing  to  a  braid  on 
James's  breast.'\ 
James.     I  thank  thee,  Roderic,  for  the  word; 
It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  my  sword. 
I  had  it  from  a  frantic  maid, 
By  thee  dishonored  and  betrayed ; 
And  I  have  sworn  the  braid  to  stain 
In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 
Now,  truce,  farewell !  and  ruth,  begone ! 
I  heed  not  that  my  strength  is  worn — 
Thy  word's  restor'd  ;  and  if  thou  wilt, 
We  try  this  quarrel,  hilt  to  hilt. 


XXXIV.— FROM  RmiSZL—Mitford. 

ANGELO RIENZL 

Angela.     Tribune, — I  said  Tribune ; — but 
Thou  wavest  away  the  word  with  such  a  scorn 
As  I  poured  poison  in  thine  ear.     Already 
Dost  weary  of  the  title  ? 

Rienzi.     Wherefore  should  1 1 

Ang.     Thou  art  ambitious. 

Rie.     Granted. 

A7ig.     And  wouldst  be 
A  king. 

Rie.     There  thou  mistakest.     A  king !  fair  son ! 
Power  dwelleth  not  in  sound,  and  fame  hath  garlands 
Brighter  than  diadems.     I  might  have  been 
Anointed,  sceptered,  crowned,  have  cast  a  blaze 
Of  glory  round  the  old  imperial  wreath, 
The  laurel  of  the  Caesars ;   but  I  chose 
To  master  kings,  not  to  be  one ;  to  direct 
The  royal  puppets  as  my  sovereign  will, 
And  Rome — my  Rome — decrees.     Tribune  !  the  Gracchi 
Were  called  so.     Tribune  !  I  will  make  that  name 
A  word  of  fear  to  kings. 

Ang.     Rienzi !     Tribune ! 
12* 


138  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Hast  thou  forgotten,  on  this  very  spot, 
How  thou  didst  shake  the  slumbering-  soul  of  Rome 
With  the  brave  sound  of  freedom,  till  she  rose. 
And  from  her  giant  limbs  the  shackles  dropped. 
Burst  by  one  mighty  throe  ?     Hadst  thou  died  then, 
History  had  crowned  thee  with  a  glorious  title — 
Deliverer  of  thy  country. 

Hie.     Well ! 

Ang.     Alas ! 
When  now  thou  fallest,  as  fall  thou  must,  'twill  be 
The  common  tale  of  low  ambition.     Tyrants 
O'erthrown  to  form  a  wilder  tyranny ; 
Princes  cast  down,  that  thy  obscurer  house 
May  rise  on  nobler  ruins. 

Rw.     Hast  thou  ended? 
I  fain  would  have  mistaken  thee — hast  done  1 

Ang.     No — for,  despite  thy  smothered  wrath,  the  voice 
Of  warning  truth  shall  reach  thee.     Thou^  to-day, 
Hast,  by  thy  frantic  sacrilege,  drawn  on  thee 
The  thunders  of  the  church,  the  mortal  feud 
Of  either  emperor.     Here,  at  home,  the  barons 
Hate,  and  the  people  shun  thee.     Seest  thou  not, 
■  Even  in  this  noon  of  pride,  thy  waning  power 
Fade,  flicker,  and  wax  dim  1     Thou  art  as  one 
Perched  on  some  lofty  steeple's  dizzy  height, 
Dazzled  by  the  sun,  inebriate  by  long  draughts 
Of  thinner  air ;  too  giddy  to  look  down 
Where  all  his  safety  lies :   too  proud  to  dare 
The  long  descent  to  the  low  depth  from  whence 
The  desperate  climber  rose. 

Rie.     Ay,  there's  the  sting — 
That  I,  an  insect  of  to-day,  outsoar 
The  reverend  worm,  nobility !     W^ouldst  shame  me 
W^ith  my  poor  parentage  ?     Sir.  I'm  the  son 
Of  him  who  kept  a  sordid  hostelry 
In  the  Jew's  quarter ;  my  good  mother  cleansed 
Linen  for  honest  hire.     Canst  thou  say  worse? 

Ang,     Can  worse  be  said  ? 

Rie.     Add,  that  my  boasted  school-craft 
Was  gained  from  such  base  toil,  gained  with  such  pain 
That  the  nice  nurture  of  the  mind  was  oft 
Stolen  at  the  body's  cost.     I  have  gone  dinnerless 
And  supperless,  the  scoff  of  our  poor  street, 
For  tattered  vestments  and  lean  hungry  looks, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  lo9 

To  pay  the  pedagogue.     Add  what  thou  wilt 

Of  injury.     Say  that,  grown  into  man, 

I've  known  the  pittance  of  the  hospital, 

And,  more  degrading  still,  the  patronage 

Of  the  Colonna.     Of  the  tallest  trees 

The  roots  delve  deepest.     Yes,  I've  trod  thy  halls. 

Scorned  and  derided  !  'midst  their  ribald  crew, 

A.  licensed  jester,  save  the  cap  and  bells  ; 

I  have  borne  this — and  I  have  borne  the  death, 

The  unavenged  death,  of  a  dear  brother. 

I  seemed  1  was  a  base,  ignoble  slave. 

What  am  I  ?     Peace.  I  say !  what  am  I  now  ? 

Head  of  this  great  republic,  chief  of  Rome ; 

In  all  but  name,  her  sovereign ;  last  of  all, 

Thy  father. 

Ang.     In  an  evil  hour — 

Rie.     Darest  thou 
Say  that  ?     An  evil  hour  for  thee,  my  Claudia ! 
Thou  shouldst  have  been  an  emperor's  bride,  my  fairest. 
In  evil  hour  thy  woman's  heart  was  caught, 
•'By  the  form  molded  as  an  antique  god  ;" 
The  gallant  bearing,  the  feigned  tale  of  love — 
All  false,  all  outward,  simulated  all. 

Ap.g.     But  that  I  loved  her,  but  that  I  do  love  hel 
With  a  deep  tenderness,  softer  and  fonder 
Than  thy  ambition-hardened  heart  e'er  dreamed  of, 
My  sword  should  answer  thee. 

Rie.     Go  to,  lord  Angelo  ; 
Thou  lovest  her  not.     Men  taunt  not,  nor  defy 
The  dear  one's  kindred.     A  bright  atmosphere 
Of  sunlight  and  of  beauty  breathes  around 
The  bosom's  idol.     I  have  loved — she  loves  thee  ; 
And  therefore,  thy  proud  father — even  the  shrew, 
Thy  railing  mother — in  her  eyes  are  sacred. 
Lay  not  thy  hand  upon  thy  sword,  fair  son — 
Keep  that  brave  for  thy  comrades.     I'll  not  fight  thee. 
Go  and  give  thanks  to  yonder  simple  bride, 
That  her  plebeian  father  mews  not  up, 
Safe  in  the  citadel,  her  noble  husband. 
Thou  art  dangerous,  Colonna.     But,  for  her, 
Beware  [  Going.] 


140 


NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


Ang.     Come  back,  Rienzi !     Thus  I  throw 
A  brave  defiance  in  thy  teeth.     [^Throws  down  his  glovc.^ 

Rie.     Once  more. 
Beware ! 

Ang.     Take  up  the  glove  ! 

Rie.     This  time  for  her —  [TaJces  up  the  glove.'] 

For  her  dear  sake — come,  to  thy  bride  !  home  !  home  ! 

Ang.     Dost  fear  me,  Tribune  of  the  people  ? 

Rie.     Fear ! 
Do  I  fear  thee !     Tempt  me  no  more.     This  once. 
Home  to  thy  bride  !  [Exit.^ 

Ang.     Now,  Ursini,  I  come — 
Fit  partner  of  thy  vengeance !  [Exit.] 


XXXV.— MAURICE,  THE  WOODCUTTER.— /SforwmW. 

PRINCE     LEOPOLD BARON    LEIBHEIM COUNT    HARTENSTEIN 

MAURICE HANS,  HIS    FRIEND DOMINIE    STARRKOPH GLAN- 

DOFF,  FRIEND  OF    THE    COUNT CAPTAIN    MANHOOF RIEGELj 

PRISON-KEEPER BOLTZEN,     HIS     TURNKEY FRITZ,     SON     OF 

MAURICE MARIE,    WIFE    OF    MAURICE LOTTA,  THEIR  DAUGH- 
TER  OFFICERS PEASANTS. 

Scono  1, — A  pleasant  Village. — A  post  from  which  a  bell  is  suspended. 

[Enter  groups  of  peasantry,  in  holiday  suits,  preceded  by 
music.     Enter  Dominie  Starr JcopJi,  with  a  large  paper.] 
Dominie      Ah — good  morrow  lo  ye,  my  merry  men,  all ! 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  141 

[Enter  Hans.'] 

Huns.     The  same  to  you,  Dominie. 

Dom.  Now  for  it — open  wide  your  ears,  and  listen  unto 
me. 

Hans.     Why,  what  have  you  got  there,  Dominie  ? 

Doni.  A  petition  to  our  most  gracious  sovereign,  Pnnce 
Leopold  ;  written  and  composed  by  no  less  a  personage  than 
Dominie  Sebastian  Starrkoph,  schoolmaster,  bachelor  of 
arts,  and  doctor  of  law. 

Omnes.     A  petition ! 

Dom.  Ay.  a  petition  against  the  cruelty  of  our  gover- 
nor, Count  Hartenstein. 

Hans.     Hush  !  take  care  what  you  say.  Dominie. 

Dom.  Marry,  for  what,  friend  Hans  ?  It  is  not  my 
place  to  fear,  but,  rather,  to  make  others  fear :  my  school- 
boys, for  instance.  You  know  me,  master  Hans  ;  recollect 
— I've  often  given  you  a  sound  flogging  before  now. 

Hans.  I  know  that  well  enough,  and  I'm  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  it :  but  Count  Hartenstein,  our  governor, 
is  no  school-boy  of  yours;  recollect  that,  master  Dominie. 

Dom.  Meddle  thou  not  with  me,  friend  Hans:  my  deeds 
will  bear  the  light,  and  I  am  at  all  times  ready  to  answer 
for  them.  But  come — now  for  the  petition  ;  which,  Tf  you 
approve  of,  I  trust  you  will  have  no  objection  to  sign ;  that 
is,  as  many  of  ye  as  can  write. 

Hans.     None  in  the  world.     I'll  make  my  mark. 

Omnes.     And  so  will  I — and  I — 

Dom.  Bravo  I  And  now  bring  me  a  chair,  or  a  table,  or 
anything  elevated,  in  order  that  I,  being  an  eminent  man, 
may  have  an  exalted  situation.  [The peasants  bring  a  large 
barrel,  on  tuhich  the  Dominie  mounts  to  read  his  petition. 
Reading. !  -  May  it  please  your  most  illustrious  royal  high- 
ness— the  humble  petition  of  the  inhabitants  of  Greenwald, 
showeth :  firstly,  that  your  petitioners  are  rapidly  sinking 
from  the  level  of  rational  beings,  to  a  condition  far  beneath 
the  brute  creation." 

Omnes.     Bravo.  Dominie ! 

Dom.  "  Secondly,  the  cause  of  such  degradation  is  solely 
the  cruel  tyranny  of  their  governor.  Count  Hartenstein ; 
who,  abusing  the  authority  reposed  in  him.  tramples  on 
your  highness'  loyal  subjects,  and  treats  them  no  better  than 
so  many  oxen,  calves,  sheep  or  asses  !'' 

Omnes.     Very  true — very  true.  Dominie  ! 

Dom      "  Thirdly,  the  state  of  matters  has  arrived  at  such 


142  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

a  pitch,  that  poor  rogues  are  hanged  in  dozens,  in  order  that 
the  rich  ones  may  go  free,  and  live  in  ease  and  security." 

Omnes.     Most  true. 

Dom.  '•  Fourthly,  your  highness'  loyal  and  affectionate 
subjects  have  more  taxes  to  pay,  than  bread  to  eat." 

Omnes.     So  we  have  ;  'tis  very  true. 

Dom.  "  Fifthly,  if  the  said  Count  Hartenstein  be  not  in- 
stantly removed  from  power,  your  highness'  loyal  subjects 
must  infallibly  all  die  of  consumption,  and,  like  a  leaky  ves- 
sel on  the  stormy  ocean,  sink  to  the  bottom."  [At  these 
wards,  the  head  of  the  barrel  gives  way,  and  the  Dominie 
falls  in.  The  peasafitry  help  hitn  out  again.  In  the  midst 
of  the  confusion,  enter  suddenly  Count  Hartenstein,  with 
guards  and  attejidants,  several  of  whom  carry  whips.\ 

Count.  What  vulgar  revelry  is  this?  Go,  idle  knaves, 
and  get  ye  hence,  to  work  ! 

Dom.  To  work  !  ay,  forsooth,  that  we  may  have  more 
money  for  thee,  when  thou  art  pleased  to  send  thy  tax-gath- 
erers to  demand  it. 

Count.  Why,  thou  audacious  rebel !  this  language  to 
me  !     Dost  thou  not  tremble,  when  I  lift  my  arm  ? 

Dom.  No.  Strike  a  poor  defenseless  old  man,  if  thou 
hast  courage  enough  to  do  so— 'twill  but  be  adding  another 
to  the  many  glorious  actions  thou  already  hast  to  boast  of 

Count      Reptile  !  thou  art  beneath  my  notice. 

Dom.  A  reptile,  am  T  ?  Treat  me  as  such  ;  tread  upon 
me,  if  you  dare  ;  and,  old  as  I  am,  I'll  turn  and  bite  thee. 

Count.  Gag  the  vile  slave  !  [Sees  the  petition  upon  the 
ground.']  What  do  I  see  ?  a  paper  too  !  some  vile  conspir- 
acy, no  doubt.  [Takes  it  up.]  These  plotting  knaves  are 
ever  brooding  mischief  [Reads.]  Audacious  rebels  !  what 
is  this  % 

Dom.  What  so  seldom  reaches  your  ears,  and  never  es- 
capes your  lips — the  truth. 

Count.  Insolent  slave  !  but  I'll  punish  thee!  Guards, 
seize  on  the  hoary  villain,  and  bind  him  to  yonder  post. 
One  hundred  lashes  be  his  chastisement.  Strip  him,  and 
spare  him  not. 

Omties.     Shame  !  shame  ! 

Count.  Peace,  murmuring  curs  !  or  ye  shall  share  his 
fate.     \To  his  guards^     Obey  my  orders. 

Hans.  [Stepjnng  foriuard.]  An't  please  your  excel- 
lency ;  seeing  as  how  the  Dominie  is  an  old  man,  and  I'm 
young  and  strong:  and  as  it  would  grieve  my  heart  to  see 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  143 

one  who  has  acted  like  a  father  to  me,  suffer  such  a  dread- 
ful punishment,  I  humbly  beg  leave  to  bear  the  one  hun- 
dred lashes  upon  my  own  brawny  shoulders,  in  place  of  the 
poor  old  Dominie.     [^Strips  off  his  coat.] 

Count.  Fool,  for  thy  pains — no  I  the  old  rebel  shall  him- 
self receive  the  punishment  awarded.  Strip  him  and  bind 
him  fast.  I  The  guards  are  about  to  obey,  ivhen  the  Domi- 
nie saves  them,  the  trouble^  by  very  deliberately  pulling  off 
his  coat  himself.']  He  mocks  me  and  my  power.  \To  the 
Dominie.]     If  I  mistake  not,  thou  art  a  schoolmaster? 

Dom.  I  am  ;  and  would  give  the  world  to  have  thee  for 
a  scholar. 

Count.     Why  so  ? 

Dom.  That  I  might  try,  if  by  a  little  wholesome  correc 
tion,  I  could  make  thee  good  for  something. 

Count.  Insulting  wretch !  dost  thou  not  condescend  to 
beg  for  mercy  ? 

Dom.  "What!  of  a  man  whose  heart  is  made  of  marble? 
Thou  knowest  as  much  of  mercy  as  of  justice. 

Count.  Such  vile  audacity  is  past  endurance  ;  and  yet  to 
make  thy  punishment  the  more  degrading,  I'll  have  thee 
flogged  by  thy  own  school-boys.  [  To  an  officer.]  Go,  fetch 
the  urchins  hither.  Bind  him  fast,  I  say.  \_The  Dominie 
is  bound  to  the  bell  post.  Officer  comes  from  the  cottage  with 
the  school-boys,  little  Fritz  at  tlieir  Jiead.] 

Fritz.  Mercy  on  us !  only  look  ! — the  Dominie  stripped 
and  bound  to  the  bell  post !     What  can  this  mean  ? 

Count.  [To  the  child.]  He  has  been  a  naughty  boy 
and  must  be  flogged.  He  has  often  whipped  you  all — has 
he  not? 

Fritz.  Oh,  yes,  my  lord,  very  often — but  never  unless 
we  deserved  it. 

Count.  You  may  now  be  revenged  on  him,  for  all  the 
pain  he  has  made  you  suffer.  [To  Ids  flagellators.]  Give 
them  your  whips.  [They  obey.]  There!  [To  the  boys.] 
I  give  you  permission  to  do  with  the  old  Dominie  just  what 
you  please. 

Fritz.     But  what  has  he  done,  my  lord  ? 

Count.     Insulted  me — called  me  a  tyrant. 

Fritz.     And  is  it  then  a  crime  to  speak  the  truth  ? 

Count.  Confusion  !  Boy,  I  pardon  thee  that  word,  be- 
cause I  know  that  rebel  was  thy  tutor.  So,  now  to  execu- 
tion.    Spare  him  not. 

Fritz.     AVell,  if  we  must,  we  must.     [He  and  the  other 


144  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

boysfourish  tlieir  whips.^     You  give   us   permission,  my 
lord,  to  do  with  the  Dominie  just  what  we  please  1 

Count.     [ExuUingly.']     I  do — I  do 

Fritz.  Enough.  \_To  t/ie  villagers.']  You  are  all  wit- 
nesses. Then  it  is  our  pleasure  to  release  the  worthy  in- 
structor of  our  youth,  from  the  power  of  a  tyrant.  [TAe 
hoys  release  the  Dominie,  kissing  and  embracing  him — then 
run  to  the  County  and  begin  pMlling  him  toward  tJie  bell 
post.] 

Count.  Confusion  seize  the  brats!  What  would  you 
with  me  ? 

Fritz.  Put  you  in  the  Dominie's  place,  and  flog  you  as 
long  as  we  could  stand  over  you. 

Dom.  Bravo  !  my  little  darlings ;  you  shall  have  half  a 
holiday  for  that  answer. 

Onines.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 

Count.  [To  his  guards.]  Disperse  these  slaves,  and 
cut  them  down  like  dogs ! 

[TJie guards  are  attacking  the  peasantry,  ivhen  suddenly .^ 
enter  Baron  Lcibheim.] 

Baron.  Hold  !  in  the  prince's  name,  no  violence.  What 
mean  these  hostile  preparations  ? 

Count.     They  are  to  punish  rebels. 

Dom.  Rebels  to  thee,  but  loyal  subjects  to  their  lawful 
prince.  [To  the  Baron.]  We  met  here,  my  lord,  to  give 
vent  to  our  hearts  in  innocent  mirth  and  honest  rejoicings, 
for  that  our  dearly  beloved  prince  returns  to  us  this  day, 
after  so  long  an  absence.  This,  it  seems,  and  the  very 
great  crime  of  telling  him  the  truth,  provoked  our  worthy 
governor  to  such  a  degree,  that  he  proceeded  to  the  brutal 
•outrage  you  so  happily  prevented.  [Handing  the  petition 
to  the  Baron.]  This  paper  will  explain  to  your  lordship  the 
honest  grounds  we  have  to  murmur. 

Baron.  \Retur7iing  the p)etition  to  the  Dominie.]  Sucn 
scenes  as  these  are  painful  to  behold  ;  nor  do  I  see  how 
they  so  soon  can  end,  for,  be  it  known  to  you,  the  prince  has 
been  detained ;  and  when  he  may  arrive  is  not  so  certain. 
Gro,  therefore,  home  in  peace  and  quietness  and  rest  as- 
sured that  justice  shall  be  done  you. 

Omnes.  Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  [Exeunt  Starrkoph,  Fritz, 
Hans  and  peasantry.] 

Count.  Your  interference  here,  my  lord,  was  quite  un- 
called for. 

Ba,ron.     'Tis  for  the  prince  I  act;  and  if  you  doubt  mv 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  146 

word,  here,  sir,  are  my  credentials.     [Gives  a  -paper  with 
seal^  Sfcl 

Count.  [Hastily  reading  it — asidcl  Curse  on  the  in- 
truder !  [Returns  paper.']  Such  documents,  my  lord,  de- 
mand implicit  reverence.  You  are  most  welcome  ;  and  my 
castle,  should  you  long  tarry  here.  I  do  entreat  you  will  in 
all  things  use  as  'twere  your  own. 

Baron.  Your  grace's  hospitality  is  too  well  known  to 
excite  wonder,  and  gladly  I  accept  your  friendly  invitation. 

Count.  Right  proud  am  I  of  such  a  noble  guest ;  and 
take  my  leave  to  make  due  preparation.  [Exit^  hypocrit- 
ically smiling,  with  guards^ 

Baron.  Thus  far,  all's  right.  The  prince  will,  in  dis- 
guise, see  if  his  people's  loud  complaints  are  just.  I  fear 
they  are  ;  for  such  a  specimen  of  government  as  I  but  now 
beheld,  is  the  sure  way  to  ruin  prince  and  people.  But  see, 
my  royal  master  comes  this  way, 

\Knter  Prince  Leopold^  mtiffied  in  a  long  cloak \ 

Prince.  How  now,  my  trusty  Leibheim,  have  you  re- 
ported what  I  ordered  you  ? 

Baron.  I  have,  your  highness ;  and  thereby  proved 
the  sudden  death  of  joy,  which,  like  a  gay  and  jocund 
bridegroom,  smiled  in  every  countenance,  in  hopes  of  your 
return. 

Prince.  And  are  the  rumors  of  the  discontent  our  people 
feel,  founded  in  truth,  or  not  ? 

Baron.  I  fear,  in  truth.  From  what  I  saw,  at  least, 
they've  cause  to  murmur.  Your  highness  knows  the 
count ;  he  is  a  man,  haughty  and  resolute.  Moreover,  your 
highness'  absence  for  so  many  years  has  given  him  power 
to  commit  more  grievous  acts  than  he,  mayhap,  can  answer 
for. 

Prince.  If  so  I'll  see  justice  done  my  people  ! — for  he's 
unworthy  of  the  name  of  prince,  who  lives  but  for  himself 

A  sovereign  should  deem  himself  a  man,  by  Heaven  sent 
To  punish  guilt,  and  right  the  innocent.  [Exeunt. 1 


Scene  2. — Interior  of  a  Prison, 

[Enter  Count  Hartenstein  and  Glandoff^  conducted  by  Rie- 
gel,  the  prison-keeper .,  and  Boltzen^  his  turnkey^ 
Riegd.     [Bowing.]     This  way,  most  excellent  sir,  this 
way. 

I  13 


146  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Count.  That  stubborn  poacher,  Maurice,  the  woodcutter, 
is,  if  I  mistake  not.  to  oe  released  to-day? 

Rie.  Your  excellency  has  a  most  astonishing  memory; 
Maurice,  the  woodcutter's  time,  does  indeed  expire  exactly 
at  twelve  o'clock,  this  very  day. 

Count.  Six  months  for  such  a  crime  was  far  too  lenient ; 
we  must  begin  to  act  with  more  severity,  or  this  vile  rabble 
will  tread  on  us  at  last.     \Knocldng  without.'] 

Rie.     [To  Boltzen.']     Boltzen,  see  who's  there ! 
[Enter  Baron  Leibheim  and  Prince  Leoj^old^  the  latter  still 
in  disguise.'] 

Count.  [Aside.]  That  meddler  here  again.  Welcome, 
my  lord  ;  you  come,  no  doubt,  to  see  our  prison  discipline  ? 

Baron.  Such,  sir,  is  our  object.  Permit  me  to  present 
to  you,  my  worthy  friend,  a  traveler  of  distinction, 

Coicnt.  An  introduction  which  I  highly  prize.  Now, 
master  Riegel,  bring  your  prisoner  forth :  I  would  admon- 
ish him  ere  he  depart. 

Rie.     Conduct  Maurice,  the  woodcutter,  hither. 
[Boltzen  brings  him  in.] 

Count.  Maurice,  the  time  of  your  imprisonment  expires 
this  day ;  and  if  you  love  your  freedom  and  your  family, 
you'll  not  transgress  the  laws  a  second  time.  Before  you 
are  discharged,  however.  I  insist  that  you  express  due  sor- 
row for  your  crime:  and  beg  pardon  of  that  gentleman, 
[poi7iting  to  Glandoff.^  whom  you  have  dishonored  by  a 
blow !     If  you  refuse,  you  remain  here  a  prisoner. 

Mau.  Never  !  though  I  should  perish  in  my  dungeon, 
will  I  pretend  sorrow,  when  I  cannot  possibly  feel  any; 
nor  ask  pardon  of  one  who  is  anything  but  a  gentleman ; 
and,  therefore,  cannot  be  disgraced  by  the  fist  of  an  honest 
man 

Count.     Insolent  slave ! 

Baron.  [To  Maiorice.]  Methinks  more  modesty  of 
speech,  my  friend,  would  aid  your  cause  far  better  than  such 
language. 

Mau.  Sir,  you  are  a  stranger  here,  and  know  not  what 
it  is  to  smart  beneath  the  bondage  of  a  tyrant. 

Count.     Audacious  rebel !     These  stubborn  peasantry— 

Mau.  Yes,  they  are  stubborn  as  their  native  oaks; 
break  them,  you  may,  by  force,  and  cut  them  down  ;  but 
bend  they  will  not,  at  a  tyrant's  nod. 

Baron.     Why  not  comply  with  such  a  just   demand  ? 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  117 

'Tis  for  some  crime,  of  course,  that  you  are  here?  Ac- 
knowledge it — say  you  are  sorry — and  depart  in  peace. 

Mau.  Sorry,  my  lord!  for  what?  for  having  killed  a 
hare,  that  crossed  my  path,  while,  as  high  heaven  above  us 
knows  full  well,  my  wife  and  helpless  babes  at  home  were 
starving  !  and  that,  too,  at  the  very  time  when  his  excellency, 
the  governor,  and  that  worthy  gentleman  yonder,  [poi/tting 
to  Glandoff.']  with  half  a  hundred  more,  were  out  upon  a 
hunting  party,  riding  through  cornfields,  trampling  down 
meadows,  scaring  the  peaceful  flocks,  and  slaughtering 
whatever  wild  animals  came  in  their  way,  with  a  merciless 
hand ;  and  for  what? — to  satisfy  the  cravings  of  nature? — 
to  stop  the  cries  of  their  hungry  children  i  No.  For  mere 
pastime — for  sport.  Me,  they  drag  from  my  poor  family  to 
prison,  while  they  rove  at  large,  committing  the  very  crime 
for  which  I  suffer,  if  it  be  one,  with  impunity.  This  may 
be  law,  perhaps,  but  is  it  j-ustice  ?  is  it  humanity  ?  And 
would  you  have  me  confess  sorrow  for  doing  my  duty?  for 
procuring  food  for  my  famishing  children,  wherever  I  could 
find  it?  Never!  Do  with  me  what  you  will,  I'll  not  ac- 
cept of  liberty,  dearly  as  I  prize  it,  on  your  conditions. 

Count.  Obstinate  boor!  {^Knocking  without.  Riegel 
nods  to  Boltzen  to  see  who  knocks ;  he  does  so.'] 

Bolt.  The  wife  and  children  of  the  prisoner,  request  to 
see  him. 

Mau.  [I?i  an  ecstacy  of  joy.]  My  dear  Marie !  my 
brave  boy,  Fritz !  and  her  mother's  image,  my  dear  little 
Lotta,  too!  Where  are  they?  let  me  fly  into  their  arms  I 
\^Crossing^  is  stopped  by  Riegel.] 

Hie.     Stop !  stop !  you  forget  where  you  are,  prisoner. 

Mau.  [^Suddenly  depressed.]  I  did  indeed  forget  my- 
self, for  joy. 

Count.    -We  want  no  squalling  brats  and  women  here. 

[The prince  here,  silently  directs  the  baron  to  interfere.] 

Baron.  Nay,  this  is  cruelty ;  and  I  entreat,  as  a  great 
favor,  that  this  poor  man's  family  be  instantly  admitted. 

Count.     Sir,  I  am  governor,  and  know  my  duty. 

Baron.  And  I,  sir,  have  the  honor  to  be  called  your 
prince's  friend  :  in  his  name  I  request,  and  if  that's  not  suf- 
ficient, I  command  you, to  let  the  prisoner  see  his  wife  and 
children. 

Count.     You  command  me,  sir  '. 

Baron.  I  do.  You  see  I  have  full  powers  from  the 
prince.     [Pointing  to  his  credentials.] 


148  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Count.     [With  dijjicuUy  suppressing  his  rage.']     Admit 
the  woman  and  her  brats.     [Riegel  lets  ih^m  in.  \ 
[Enter  Marie^  little  Fritz,  and  Lotta.] 

Mau.  [Embracing  t/iem.]  Ah,  my  dear  Marie !  my 
Fritz  !  my  Lotta  too  ! 

Marie.     My  Maurice ! 

Fritz       ) 

J-       ■      >  Dear  father !     [Mutual  embrace.'] 

Count.     Your  husband  is  at  liberty,  good  woman. 

Marie.     Heaven  bless  your  excellency! 

Mau.     Amen  !  for  no  man  living  needs  it  more. 

Count.  Upon  condition  that  he  ask  pardon,  and  express 
sorrow  for  his  crime. 

Mau.     Never ! 

Marie.  "What — not  to  save  your  Marie,  and  your  poor 
children  from  misery  and  despair? 

Mau.  And  would  you  have  me  tell  a  willful  lie  in  the 
sweet  face  of  heaven  1 

Marie.  Dear  Maurice,  for  our  sakes  kneel  down  and  beg 
his  excellency's  pardon. 

Lotta.     Do,  father,  for  your  little  Lotta's  sake. 

Mau.  [Softening.]  Well,  well — I — will — ask  pardon; 
yes,  for  your  sakes,  I  will 

Fritz.  Show  yourself  a  man,  father,  and  don't  do  any 
such  thing ! 

Mau.  [Embracing  the  boy  in  transpoi't.]  No,  I  won't, 
my  boy!  [To  Riegel.]  Lead  me  back  to  my  dungeon 
again  ;  for  if  I  tell  a  lie  to  please  any  man  I  shall  not  carry 
out  of  the  prison  the  treasure  I  brought  into  it — a  pure,  un- 
sullied conscience ! 

Cou7it.  [Stamping  violently.]  Into  the  deepest  dungeon 
with  the  slave !  there,  on  one  scanty  meal  a  day  of  bread 
and  water,  we'll  soon  subdue  his  haughty  spirit. 

Mau.  Never  I — for  with  my  dying  breath  I'll  curse  all 
tyrants ! 

Count.     Away  with  him  I 

Marie       ^  tv/t         »  • 

Lotta.        ^  Mercy!  mercy! 

Fritz.  [Aside.]  I've  a  good  mind  to  cry — but  I  won't; 
no — nor  Leg  neither. 

[The prince  here  again  instructs  the  baron  to  interfere^ 
Baron.     I  am  again  compelled  to  interfere.     [To  Mau- 
rice.]    In   the  prince's  name,  I  give  you   instant  liberty 
Go,  then,  and  bless  the  family  you  love  so  dearly. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  149 

Count.  [Asicle-I  My  rage  will  suffocate  me  !  yet  will  I 
have  revenge ! 

Mau.  [To  baron.']  Whoever  you  are,  my  lord,  may  a 
poor  man's  blessing  attend  you.  \_K?ieels,and  kisses  baron^s 
hand;  rising.']  Come,  my  loves!  [To  Count  and  Glan- 
doff".]  And  as  for  you,  gentlemen  sportsmen,  when  you 
next  sit  down  to  a  venison  dinner,  I  hope  you'll  just  reflect 
for  a  moment  on  the  situation  of  the  poor  husband  and 
father,  who  has  not  a  morsel  of  food  for  his  starving  wife 
and  children ;  that  will  teach  you  a  little  more  humanity ! 
Come,  Marie  !  come,  children,  come  ! 

Count.  [Aside  to  Glandoff.]  Follow  me  to  the  palace, 
— there  to  concert  measures  of  revenge !  [Exeunt  all  but 
the  baron  and  j^rince.] 

Baron.     What  think  you  now,  my  prince  ? 

Frince.  I've  heard  and  seen  what  I  had  ne'er  believed 
but  for  the  evidence  of  my  own  senses.  And  my  heart 
bleeds  to  see  the  poor  thus  trampled  on.  Eut,  patience  yet, 
to  see  how  far  he  will  proceed,  and  then  to  crush  the  tyrant ! 

[Exe'U7it.] 

Scene  3. — The  Village,  Bell,  (fee,  as  in  Scene  1. 

[Enter  Dominie  StarrJioph.] 

Dom.  I  verily  believe  that  fate  has  conspired  with  tyr- 
anny and  oppression,  to  trample  on  the  rights  of  honest 
men.  Just  as  I  was  on  the  point  of  overtaking  the  worthy 
baron,  to  present  to  him  my  petition.  I  learned  that  he  had 
been  most  barbarously  murdered :  and  then  to  think  that 
Maurice,  the  woodcutter,  should  have  been  guilty  of  so 
shocking  a  deed ;  a  man  whom  we  all  consider  so  honest. 
For  my  part,  I  can  never  believe,  it,  though  the  proofs  are 
strong  against  him. 

[Enter  Glandojf.,  with  a  letter.] 

Glan.     Heaven  save  the  worthy  Dominie  ! 

Dom.  Amen !  and  all  of  us,  from  the  power  of  the  evil 
one. 

Glan.  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  letter  for  you  ;  'tis  from  his 
excellency. 

Dom.  From  the  governor,  you  mean :  we  won't  talk  of 
his  excellence. 

Gkui.     E'en  as  you  will ;  'tis  but  a  title. 

Dom.  Very  true,  and  in  this  case,  a  word  without  mean- 
ing. 

13» 


150  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Glan.  Here's  the  letter.  \Gives  it\  His  excellent;/ 
the  Count  will  be  here  anon,  to  receive  your  answer  in 
person. 

Dom.  Well.  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  think  myself  highly 
honored,  especially  after  the  flogging  he  was  about  to  inflict 
upon  me  this  morning.  Which  way  does  the  wind  blow 
now,  I  wonder  ? 

Glan.  Read,  Dominie,  and  you  will  learn  his  excellency's 
pleasure. 

Dom.  \Puts  on  his  spectacles.^  and  while  he  is  silently 
reading  the  letter,  enter  the  Count:  the  Dominie  seems 
highly  incensed  at  the  contents  of  tJie  letter.']  Hem  !  hem  ! 
So  I  am  to  keep  this  affair  a  secret,  am  I  ? 

Count.  [^Coming  forward.]  Such  is  my  wish,  my 
worthy  Dominie. 

Dom.  Hem !  worthy  Dominie  !  Since  when  has  it  been 
the  fashion  to  order  worthy  Dominies  to  be  flogged,  I  should 
like  to  know? 

Count.  Let  that  be  buried  in  oblivion  ;  we  will  be 
friends,  provided  you  accept  my  offer,  and  keep  the  whole 
affair  a  secret. 

Dom.  Yes,  yes,  my  lord,  you'll  find  old  Dominie  is  a 
rare  fellow  at  keeping  a  secret. 

Count.  This  purse  shall  be  an  earnest  of  your  future 
fortune. 

Dom.  Your  excellency  quite  overpowers  me :  yet  such 
modesty,  such  Christian  charity,  shall  not  be  kept  a  secret 
from  the  world ;  but  be  blazoned  forth,  that  others  may  imi- 
tate so  glorious  an  example.     [iiZe  runs  toward  the  bell.] 

Cou7it.  \Trying  to  prevent  him,]  What  would  you  do, 
my  worthy  Dominie  % 

Dom.  What  would  I  do  ?  Why,  make  the  people  ac- 
quainted with  the  only  generous  action  their  governor  has 
performed  in  the  whole  course  of  his  life.  Nothing  more  ! 
Old  Dominie  Starrkoph's  the  man  for  keeping  a  secret.  [i7e 
pulls  the  hell  witli  violence.  \ 

Count.     [^Stamping  ivith  violence.]     Mad-headed  idiot ! 
[^Enter  Hans,  and  numerous  peasantry'^ 

Hans.  What  now,  what  now  ?  Is  the  village  on  fire  1 
another  petition  to  be  signed  ?  or — 

Dom.  A  greater  wonder,  far  !  Open  wide  yonr  ears,  ye 
men  of  Greenwald  !  Your  governor,  Count  Hartenstein, 
has  given  away  a  purse  of  gold,  and  most  liberal  promises 
of  future  favor,  to  a  poor  man  ;  there's  a  wonder  for  you  ! 


SERIOUS    AND    SEyTIMKNTAI..  151 

Count.     Insolent  wretch  !  give  me  back  the  letter,  or — 

Dom.  Not  until  I  have  gone  through  with  it.  my  lord. 
Now  attend  my  call,  one  and  aJl.  [Heads]  ^' From  his 
excellency  the  governor,  to  the  worthy  Dominie  Starrkoph, 
greeting."  [Spokc/i.]  Mark  that,  neighbors  !  To  the 
worthy  Dominie.  [Reads.]  '•  In  consideration  of  the  man- 
ifold advantages  which  have  occurred  to  the  state  from  your 
excellent  mode  of  educating  youth,  it  is  our  intention  to 
grant  you,  from  the  public  treasure,  a  pension  of  one  thou- 
sand dollars  per  annum,  together  with  the  sinecure  situation 
of  gentleman  ballad-singer  to  the  prince  ;  on  consideration 
that  you  do  not  present  to  our  gracious  sovereign,  the  peti- 
tion we  perused  this  morning.  This  our  generous  offer,  you 
will,  of  course,  keep  an  inviolable  secret.  Signed,  Count 
Hartenstein."  [Spoken.]  There,  neighbors  there's  a  pre- 
cious epistle  for  you. 

Count.  [Highly  incensed.]  Audacious  demagogue  I 
[To  Glandoff.  asi/e.]     Go,  fetch  a  guard  !    [Exit  Glandoff.] 

Dom.  You  see,  my  lord,  I  have  kept  your  generous  offer 
an  inviolable  secret.  Odds  fools  caps,  and  birch-brooms  !  to 
think  of  bribing  me.  a  man  of  my  dignity  and  rank  in  life  ! 
and  one  who  is  so  well  known  for  temperance  and  frugal- 
ity. Old  Dominie  Starrkoph,  indeed  !  take  a  bribe  out  of 
the  pockets  of  his  suffering  countrymen,  to  betray  their 
cause!  accept  the  sinecure  situation  of  gentleman  ballad-singer 
to  the  prince ;  zounds  !  the  prince  wants  no  ballad-singers, 
he  has  other  fish  to  fry  ;  and  none  but  a  rogue  would  ever 
think  of  pocketing  a  salary,  without  rendering  his  country 
some  service  for  it.  in  return.  [Throws  the  purse  at  the 
counV s  feet^  ivith  indignation.]  Take  back  your  money,  my 
lord,  to  bribe  slaves !  not  those  who  know  their  duty  to  their 
country.  Sinecures  indeed  I  I  only  wish  our  gracious  prince 
were  here,  just  now— [t J te  pri7ice  enters  and  viingles  with 
tiie  throng.] — he'd  see  justice  done  us.  Birch-brooms  !  I'd 
tell  him  such  a  tale  as  should  open  his  eyes  to  the  truth. 
Odds  fools-caps  !     I'd — 

[Enter    Glandoff^   with  gu^rd^  commanded   by    Captain 
Manhoof.] 

Count.  Down  with  these  rebels,  soldiers !  I  command 
you.     [Soldiers  }t£sitate.] 

Man.     My  lord  ! 

Count.     Fiends  and  perdition  !  you  dare  hesitate ! 

Ma7i.    We  do,  my  lord ;  convinced  that  such  scenes  of 


152  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

blood  are  as  repugnant  to  the  feeling-s  of  our  noble-minded 
prince,  as  they  are  to  humanity. 

Count.     At  your  peril,  sir  ! 

Man.  Be  it  so.  We  have  been  too  long  the  instruments 
of  cruelty  and  oppression.  Our  duty  is  to  uphold  the  laws, 
not  to  become  the  abject  tools  of  tyranny ;  we,  therefore,  do 
refuse  to  murder  our  fellow-countrymen  in  cold  blood,  and 
are  prepared  to'  take  the  consequences. 

Count.     Villains !  traitors ! 

Man.  Neither,  my  lord  !  yet  we  are  well  aware,  our 
conduct  is  against  the  strict  lawsof  military  discipline  ;  and, 
therefore,  surrender  ourselves  your  prisoners,  until  our  gra- 
cious prince  decides  our  fate.  Soldiers  !  ground  your  arms. 
[  Tke  soldwrs  obey.  Captain  Manhoof  delivers  his  sword  to 
the  governor.  ] 

Coimt.  You  shall  repent  this  perfidy.  [Hands  Captain 
Manhoof  ^s  sword  to  Glandoff.\ 

Omnes.     Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

Dom,.  [To  the  governor.']  You'll  be  sure  to  keep  this 
affair  a  secret,  my  lord  ! 

Scene  4. — A  Street. 

[Enter  Dominie^  Ha7is,  and  several  peasants. "] 

Hans.     A  sad  business,  this,   neighbors,  isn't  it  ?      And 
just  when  we  expected  his  highness,  the  prince,  home,  too. 
I'm  afraid  the  murder  of  his  friend,  the  baron,  will  cause' 
him  to  believe  we  are  indeed  no  better  than  the  count  repre- 
sents us — a  set  of  unruly,  outrageous  rebels. 

Bo7n.  Tut,  man  !  no  such  thing — my  petition  will  rec- 
tify that  error,  and  refute  every  unfounded  calumny ;  and, 
depend  upon  it,  I'll  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  bring  this 
horrid  murder  home  to  the  real  perpetrators  of  it :  for,  that 
honest  Maurice,  the  woodcutter,  could  be  guilty  of  such  a 
crime.  I  never  will  believe. 

Hans.     Nor  I  neither.  Dominie  ! 

Omnes.     Nor  any  of  us ! 

Michael.  But  wasn't  his  hatchet  found  near  the  body, 
and  the  baron's  casket  of  jewels  in  Maurice's  cottage? 

Dom.  That,  at  first,  is  rather  against  him,  I'll  allow  : 
but  no  matter,  I  say  he  is  innocent  !  Dickens!  he  shall  be 
innocent,  and  I  will  prove  it ;  have  we  not  all  known  him 
for  years,  as  an  honest,  worthy  fellow  1 

Omnes.     We  have.  Dominie. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL,  153 

Dom.  And  shall  we  forsake  him  now  that  he's  in  trouble 
und  distress  ?  No,  never!  I  have  studied  the  law,  and  will 
draw  up  such  a  defense  for  poor  Maurice,  as  shall  fully  es- 
tablish his  innocence.  You  all  recollect  the  birch-broom, 
you  know,  when  you  used  to  go  to  school  to  me — you  have 
f(flt  the  power  of  my  arm,  and  shall  now  feel  the  force  of 
my  eloquence  in  behalf  of  an  honest,  worthy  member  of  soci- 
ety. So.  come  along,  I'll  prove  him  innocent.  Odds  fools 
caps  and  birch-brooms !  he  shall  be  innocent.  [Exeunt 
07?i?ies.] 

[Enter  Count,  folloived  by  Glandoff.^ 

Count.  To  place  the  country  under  martial  law  was  our 
last  resource ;  and  that  stern  rebel,  Maurice,  the  woodcutter, 
shall  be  the  first  whose  life  shall  gratify  my  just  revenge  ! 
My  twisty  GlandofT,  say,  how  was  the  body  of  my  hated 
rival  disposed  of? 

Glan.  His  friend,  the  traveler,  had  it  removed  for  hon- 
orable burial. 

Count.  And  when  you  returned  into  the  forest,  did  you 
not  find  the  jeweled  miniature,  which  I  lost  in  the  struggle? 

Glan.  No,  my  lord.  The  robbers  who  infest  the  forest, 
no  doubt  seized  on  the  spoil. 

Count.  Most  probably.  And  that  young  urchin,  the 
woodcutter's  son,  who  was,  I  fear,  a  witness  to  the  deed,  you 
silenced  him  forever,  did  you  not  1 

Glan.     I  did,  my  lord. 

Count.  Success  !  then  all  is  well,  and  I  defy  detection. 
Now  to  the  court,  to  try  the  criminal.     [Eooeunt.^ 


Scene  6. — Interior  of  a  Court  of  Justice.  Large  folding-doors  in  center. 
The  Count  discovered  sitting  as  Presiding  Judge,  surrounded  by  his 
guards,  officers  of  justice,  &c.  GlandolFacts  as  Secretary.  Michael, 
with  his  staff  of  office,  is  keeping  back  the  spectators,  among  whom 
are  Hans,  <fec. 

Count.  Now,  secretary,  [To  Glandoff?[  read  aloud  the 
cause  which  is  to  occupy  the  court  to  day. 

Glan.  [Reads^  The  object  of  the  court-martial  now 
assembled  by  his  excellency,  the  governor,  Count  Harten- 
stein,  is  to  investigate  a  charge  of  a  most  inhuman  murder, 
and  punish  the  perpetrators  thereof 

Count.     And  the  individual  suspected — ■ 

Glan.     Is  Maurice,  the  woodcutter. 

Count.     Bring  forth  the  prisoner. 


164  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

[Enter  Riegel,  Boltzen^  Maurice^  Marie^  and  Lotta.] 

Marie.     Alas,  my  Maurice  I 

Mau.  Never  fear,  Marie,  heaven  will  protect  us  ;  and. 
even  at  the  worst,  is  it  not  better  to  die  innocent,  than  live 
dishonored  and  disgraced  ?  But  where's  my  boy — my 
Frilz  ?     Have  you  not  found  him  ? 

Alarie.     Alas  !  not  yet. 

Mau.  [To  Count. \  My  lord,  I  have  lost  my  boy,  my 
darling-  child  !  li^  you  know  where  he  is,  restore  him  to  his 
doting  father's  arms.     I  must — I  will  have  my  boy. 

Count.  Peace,  madman  !  What  do  I  know  of  thy  brats  ? 
[Pointing  to  Glandoff.  |  This  gentleman,  perhaps,  knows 
something  of  him.  [To  Glandoff?^  Did  you  not  see  him 
fall  into  the  lake  and  perish  ? 

Glan.     I  did,  my  lord. 

Mom.  Nay,  nay,  you're  surely  wrong,  most  gentle  sir ; 
you  never  could  have  beheld  my  poor  child  struggling  with 
the  waves,  nor  try  to  save  his  life — impossible  !  Heaven  is 
my  witness  !  I  would  with  rapture,  ay.  even  at  stormy  mid- 
night, leap  from  the  summit  of  the  highest  rock,  into  the  ra- 
ging surf  below,  to  save  the  child  of  my  bitterest  enemy — 
[To  Coitntl — ay,  even  your  child,  my  lord, — [To  Glandoff^ 
— or  yours ! 

Count.  No  more  of  this  romance.  [To  Glandoff^  Com- 
mence proceedings. 

Glan.  [Reads  the  charge.']  '•  You,  Maurice  Freeman, 
commonly  known  by  the  name  of  Maurice,  the  woodcutter, 
are  hereby  indicted  and  accused  of  having  committed  the 
heinous  crime  of  murder,  on  the  body  of  his  excellency. 
Baron  Leibheim,  by  striking  the  said  baron  a  deadly  blow 
upon  the  head,  with  your  axe,  or  hatchet,  when  the  said 
Baron  Leibheim  was  out  upon  a  hunting  party  in  the  forest 
of  Ravenhorst.  To  which  charge,  you  are  commanded  to 
plead — "  guilty  or  not  guilty  ?" 

Mau.  [In  afinn^  manly  voice^  looking  steadfastly  up  to 
heaven.]  Not  guilty !  by  all  my  hopes  of  bliss  here  and 
hereafter. 

Count.     Have  you  no  counsel  here  to  plead  your  cause  ? 

Mau.     None,  but  myself 

[Enter  old  Dominie^  dressed  as  a  lawyer.] 

Dom.  Yes,  but  you  have,  though, — as  able  a  counselor 
as  the  best  of  them, — ay,  and  what's  more,  an  honest  one. 
too  ;  for  he  comes  to  plead  without  a  fee. 

Count.     What,  you — Dominie,  the  schoolmaster  ! 


SERIOUS    A^D    SENTIMENTAL.  155 

Dom.  Yes,  my  lord;  come  to  plead  for  my  friend,  in 
public, — there's  not  the  least  occasion  for  keeping  the  affaij- 
a  secret. 

Count.     But  by  what  authority  do  you — ■ 

Dom.  By  that  authority  which  made  me  a  limb  of  the 
law.  'Tis  true,  I  have  lately  given  over  practice,  and  taken 
to  the  more  hunibie  avocation  of  schoolmaster — for,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  felt  a  little  qualmish  hereabouts — [Lays  his  luind 
on  his  bosom.']  I  mean,  in  point  of  conscience  ;  but  as  this 
is  a  subject  which  cannot  possibly  concern  your  excellency, 
I'll  not  detain  the  court  with  long  speeches,  but  instantly 
commence  pleading  for  my  friend,  who,  I  hesitate  not  to  de- 
clare, is  most  unjustly,  unfoundedly,  and  maliciously  ac- 
cused of  the  dreadful  crime  of — 

Count.     Be  cautious  what  you  say  !  «» 

Dom.  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  lord, — I  know  what  I  am 
about,  well  enough.  Firstly,  and  chiefly,  my  client  is  ac- 
cused of  murdering  a  man  who  was  his  benefactor,  which  is 
both  unreasonable  and  unnatural. 

Count.  This  is  not  to  the  point.  The  worthy  baron  was 
most  barbarously  murdered  in  the  forest. 

Dom.  Which  is  notoriously  overrun  with  desperate  ban- 
ditti ; — may  not  they  have  committed  the  crime  of  which  my 
friend  here  stands  accused  'I 

Count.  [To  Glandoff.\  Secretary,  proceed  to  prove  the 
charge. 

Glo,n.  Suspicion,  amounting  to  almost  moral  certainty 
attaches  itself  to  the  prisoner,  -  for,  that  this  hatchet,  belong- 
ing to  him,  marked  with  his  name  in  full,  and  stained  with 
blood,  was  found  lying  close  to  the  body  of  the  murdered 
baron.  [  Glandoff  j^roduces  the  hatdiet.,  which  Michael 
hands  to  Maurice.] 

Count.     Is  this  your  hatchet,  Maurice  ? 

Mau.     It  is,  my  lord. 

Dom.  Explain  that  circumstance  to  the  court,  Maurice ; 
for  nothing  can  persuade  me  that  you  are  guilty  of  the 
murder. 

Mau.  That  hatchet  was  left,  by  mere  accident,  in  the 
forest,  where  I  had  been  cutting  wood,  with  my  boy — my 
dear  Fritz,  whom  I  have  lost  forever ! 

Count.     This  is  bare  assertion,  without  proof 

Glan.  Moreover,  this  casket  of  jewels,  the  property  of 
the  murdered  baron,  was  found  concealed  in  the  prisoner'^ 
cottage. 


156  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Mau.  The  worthy  baron  himself  intrusted  it  to  my  care, 
fearing  to  cross  the  forest  with  so  much  property  in  his  pos- 
session. 

Count.     Your  witnesses,  that  what  you  say  is  true. 

Mau.     My  wife,  my  little  Lotta  here,  and  Heaven  ! 

Marie.     And  the  gentleman  who  was  with  the  baron 

Count.  He  has  departed.  [To  Maurice.^  The  evidence 
of  your  wife  and  child,  in  this  case,  cannot  be  admitted  ;  and 
as  for  your  appeal  to  Heaven — 

Mau.  That,  most  probably,  your  excellency  has  nothing 
to  do  vi^ith ;  therefore,  I  beg  of  you,  proceed  without  delay 
to  judgment,  for  I  have  little  hope  of  mercy  here. 

Count.  [Putting  on  a  red  cloak ^  and  taking  (o  Hack  wand 
in  his  hand.,  rises  to  pronounce  sentence.^ 

Marie.  Mercy  !  my  lord.  Oh,  spare  my  husband  !  or  let 
the  blow  aimed  at  his  precious  life  strike  me  as  well. 

Dom.  This  is  too  bad  ;  my  patience  is  exhausted  ;  I  can 
contain  myself  no  longer  !  [Aloud.]  I,  Dominie  Sebastian 
Starrkoph,  do  openly  protest  against  this  overhasty  proceed- 
ing. Our  country  is  not  so  disorganized,  that  the  suspen- 
sion of  our  civil  rights  were  necessary  to  maintain  public 
tranquillity  !  You  have  no  right  to  try  an  honest  citizen  by 
martial  law ;  and  I  insist  on  a  civil  process,  and  that  grand 
bulwark  of  life  and  liberty,  an  independent  and  impartial 
jury. 

Cmmt.     Peace,  pedagogue  !  or  quit  the  court  this  instant. 

Hans.  [Aside,']  This  is  more  than  I  can  bear.  To  see 
my  dear  friend,  Maurice,  suffer  an  ignominious  death,  would 
break  my  heart;  and  since  the  tyrant  seems  bent  upon  re- 
venge, why  may  not  one  innocent  man  die  as  well  as  an- 
other ?  Poor  Maurice  is  a  husband  and  a  father ;  I  have 
neither  wife  nor  child,  to  mourn  my  loss.  Heaven  forgive 
me  for  uttering  a  deliberate  falsehood  ;  it  is  to  save  the  life 
of  my  friend.  [T'o  the  court,  in  a  firm,  manly  voice.]  My 
lord,  Maurice^  the  woodcutter,  is  innocent ;  I  am  the  mur- 
derer! therefore  instantly  release  him,  and  let  me  die.  [Ail 
are  amazed.  \ 

Mau.  Believe  him  not,  my  lord  ;  he  is  my  friend,  my 
dearest  bosom  friend,  and  says  this  but  to  save  my  life ;  be- 
lieve him  not.  He  a  murderer!  Have  T  not  often  seen  him 
on  a  summer's  eve,  when  we  have  wandered  through  the 
tields  together,  step  carefully  aside,  to  avoid  treading  on  a 
poor  snail  or  worm,  that  chanced  to  cross  his  path  ?      Is  it 


SEIIIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL,  157 

then  likely,  that  such  a  man  could  e'er  in  malice  harm  a 
fellow  creature? 

Hans.  You  hear,  my  lord,  what  I  assert;  proceed  to 
judgment. 

Slau.     On  me^  on  me,  bnt  not  upon  my  friend. 

Hans.     He  raves,  my  lord.     I  did  the  horrid  deed. 

Mau  'Tis  false  !  the  first  untruth  thou  ever  spakest,  m 
thy  whole  life  of  rigid  honesty.  By  Heaven  above,  that 
reads  all  human  hearts,  I  swear  he  is  innocent !  \^Forget- 
ting  himself .~\  I  only  am  the — [Recolkcting  ^  What  would 
I  say  ?  My  brain  is  surely  crazed.  My  friend  is  innocent 
— I  am  innocent ! — we  are  both  innocent !  \Falls  on  the 
neck  of  Hans.  \ 

Count.  We  are  compelled  to  yield  to  proof  so  strong,  as 
that  which  fixes  all  the  guilt  on  Maurice.  Prisoner,  you  are 
found  guilty,  and  death  is  your  sentence  ! 

Marie.     Oh,  mercy,  mercy  ! 

Mau.  Nay,  Marie,  supplicate  not  forme  ;  I  am  weary  of 
crawHng  about  in  this  miserable  world,  at  the  mercy  of  a 
tyrant !     Yet  these,  my  friends,  do  not  believe  me  guilty? 

O nines .     Not  one  of  us  ! 

Mail.  That  is  my  consolation.  And  now  1  go  to  death 
without  one  sigh  of  regret,  save  for  my  dear  Marie,  and  my 
poor  fatherless  children  !  No,  not  children  !  My  boy  !  my 
Fritz!  Marie,  my  love,  farewell!  [jTo  Lotta.^  Heaven 
bless  thee,  my  child  !  I  shall  soon  see  thy  brother  in  a  bet- 
ter world.  Methinks  I  see  him  now,  as  a  sweet  cherub  on 
a  silvery  cloud,  beckoning  me  to  come  away.  I  come,  1 
come,  my  boy  !  to  dwell  with  thee  forever,  in  that  blessed 
land  where  tyrants  ne'er  shall  crush  the  innocent. 

Marie.  Mercy  I  my  lord  ;  mercy  for  my  dear  husband  ! 
as  you  yourself  expect  it  from  high  Heaven  ! 

[Mujiecl  drum  heard  ivitJiout.  as  tJie  signal  for  execution  ; 
at  tlie  sound,  of  which^  Marie  utters  an  exclamation  and 
faints  away.     Slie  is  supported  by  Hans  and  the  DomifUfi.] 

Mau.  [After  a  hard  struggle  with  his  feeli?igs.]  Lead 
on  ;  I  am  ready  !  [As  the  guard  are  about  to  lead  off  the 
prisoner^  the  Count  rises.  \         ^ 

Count.     [Breaking  the  bhu^Koand.'] 
The  rod  is  broken, 
The  sentence  spoken ; 
Death!  for  the  dreadful  crime  of  murder! 
[At  this  moment  Friiwe  Leopold,  still  in  his  long  cloak^ 
rus/t£s  in.^ 


158  NKW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Prince.     Hold  !     Maurice,  the  woodcutter,  is  innocent  1 

Dom.  Hurrah!  I  knew  he  was.  [Marie  recovers  and 
is  overjoy  eel.} 

Count.     [To  Prince.]     Who  dares  assert  this  1 

Prince      I  dare. 

Count.     And  who  are  you? 

Prince.  [Throwing  off  his  disguise.']  Your  lawful  sov- 
ereign. Prince  Leopold. 

Omnes.     Hurrah  ! 

Count.  [Dropping  on  one  knee.]  Your  highness,  we 
have  proofs — 

Prince.  Against  thee,  villain !  thou  art  the  murderer  ! 
Our  proofs  are  these:  our  royal  father's  picture,  and  this 
mask,  torn  by  the  victim  from  his  murderer. 

Count.  My  prince,  I  was  robbed  of  that  picture,  in  the 
forest.  [Prince  Leopold  gives  a  signal.,  when^  enter  Baron 
Leibheim^ 

Baron.  'Tis  false !  Count  Hartenstein  is  the  assassin, 
though  bounteous  Heaven  defeated  his  intent.  Maurice, 
the  woodcutter,  is  a  worthy  man.  The  casket  of  jewels  was 
by  me  intrusted  to  his  care,  and  shall  be  his,  with  all  that  it 
contains,  as  the  reward  of  honesty. 

Hans.  Well,  I  always  said,  "  honesty  is  the  best 
policy." 

Prince.  [To  tlie  guard.]  Conduct  those  miscreants  to 
execution  !  [Plxit  guard  with  the  County  Glandoff^  Mi- 
chael^ Riegel^  and  Boltzen] 

Mau.     I  have  but  one  grief  more — my  dear,  dear  boy  ! 

Prince.  He  is  here,  to  make  your  happiness  complete. 
[Little  Fritz  rushes  into  his  parents^  arms.]  I  kept  him 
from  you,  for  his  evidence.  That  villain,  Glandoff.  threw 
him  from  the  bridge  into  the  rapid  stream. 

Fritz.  And  our  noble  prince  plunged  in,  and  saved  my 
life. 

Maurice  and  Marie.  Heaven's  blessings  on  your  royal 
highness. 

\_The  curtain  falls.'] 


8ERI0CJS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  ] />9 


XXX VI— FROM  lOia. -Talfourd 

ADRASTUS,    KING     OF     ARGOS MEDON,     HIGH     PRIEST     OF      THE 

TEMPLE     OF     ArOLLO ION,     A     FOtNDLING,     PROTECTED     B^ 

MEDON CTESIPHON,    CASSANDER,    NOBLE     ARGIVE    YOUTHS 

CYRTHES,    CAPTAIN    OF    THE     ROYAL    GUARD AGENOR,    SAGE 

OF    ARGOS. 

Scene  1. — The  royal  Chamber.     Adrastus  on  a  couch,  asleep, 

[Enter  Ion  with  a  knife.'] 

Ion.     Why  do  I  creep  thus  stealthily  along- 
With  trembling  steps?     Am  I  not  armed  by  Heaven 
To  execute  its  mandate  on  a  king 
Whom  it  hath  doomed  ?     And  shall  I  falter  now, 
While  every  moment  that  he  breathes  may  crush 
Some  life  else  happy  ?     Can  I  be  deceived, 
By  some  foul  passion,  crouching  in  my  soul, 
Which  takes  a  radiant  form  to  lure  me  on? 
Assure  me,  gods  ! — Yes ;  I  have  heard  your  voices ; 
For  I  dare  pray  ye  now  to  nerve  my  arm, 
And  see  me  strike  !     \_He  goes  to  the  couch.'] 
He's  smiling  in  his  slumber, 
As  if  some  happy  thoughts  of  innocent  days 
Played  at  his  heart  strings  :  must  I  scare  it  thence 
With  death's  sharp  agony?     He  lies  condemned 
By  the  high  judgment  of  supernal  Powers, 
And  he  shall  know  their  sentence.     A\'ake,  Adrastus  ! 
Collect  thy  spirits,  and  be  strong  to  die ! 

Adruslas.     Who  dares  disturb  my  rest  ?     Guards!  Sol- 
diers !     Kecreants ! 
Where  tarry  ye?     Why  smite  ye  not  to  earth 
This  bol([  intruder?      Ha!  no  weapon  here! 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me.  ruffian  i     \^Rising.]  ^^ 

Ion.     I  am  none,  K^ 

But  a  sad  instrument  in  Jove's-great  hand, 
To  take  thy  life  long  forfeited. ^J^repare  ! 
Thy  hour  is  come  !  ^^ 

Adra^.      Villains  !  does  no  one  hear? 

Ion.     Yex  not  the  closing  minutes  of  thy  uting 
With  torturing  hope  or  idle  rage  ;   thy  guards, 
Palsied  with  revelry,  are  scattered  senseless, 
While  the  most  valiant  of  our  Argive  youths. 


160  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Hold  every  passage  by  which  human  aid 
Could  reach  thee.     Present  death  is  the  award 
Of  Powers  who  watch  above  me,  while  I  stand 
To  execute  their  sentence 

Adras.     Thou  !     I  know  thee — 
The  youth  I  spared  this  morning-,  in  whose  ear 
I  poured  the  secrets  of  my  bosom.     Kill  me, 
If  thou  dar'st  do  it ;  but  bethink  thee  first, 
How  the  grim  memory  of  thy  thankless  deed 
Will  haunt  thee  to  the  grave ! 

Ion.     It  is  most  true, 
Thou  sparedst  my  life,  and  therefore  do  the  gods 
Ordain  me  to  this  office,  lest  thy  fall 
Seem  the  chance  forfeit  of  some  single  sin. 
And  not  the  great  redress  of  Argos.     Now — • 
Now,  while  I  parley — Spirits  that  have  left, 
Within  this  hour,  their  plague-tormented  flesh 
To  rot  untombed,  glide  by,  and  frown  on  me, 
Their  slow  avenger — and  the  chamber  swarms 
With  looks  of  furies.     Yet  a  moment  wait, 
Ye  dreadful  prompters  !     If  there  is  a  friend, 
Whom  dying  thou  wouldst  greet  by  word  or  token. 
Speak  thy  last  bidding. 

Adras.     I  have  none  on  earth. 
If  thou  hast  courage,  erid  me  ! 

Ion.     Not  one  friend  ! 
Most  piteous  doom  ! 

Adras.     Art  melted? 

Ion.     If  I  am, 
Hope  nothing  from  my  weakness ;  mortal  arms. 
And  eyes  unseen  that  sleep  not.  gird  us  round, 
And  we  shall  fall  together.     Be  it  so ! 

Adras.     No ;  strike  at  once  ;  my  hour  is  come :  in  thee 
I  recognize  the  minister  of  Jove, 

^Uid,  kneeling  thus,  submit  me  to  his  power.     \_Kn£els.'] 
tflon.     Avert  thy  face  ! 

Adras.     No ;  let  me  meet  thy  gaze  ; 
For  breathing  pity  lights^y  features  up 
Into  more  awful  likeness^^"a  form 
Which  once  shone  on  me  ;  and  which  now  my  sense 
Shapes  palpable — in  habit  of  the  grave, 
Inviting  me  to  the  sad  realm  where  shades 
Of  innocents,  whom  passionate  regard 
Linked  with  the  guilty,  are  content  to  pace 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  161 

With  them  the  margin  of  the  inky  flood, 
Mournful  and  calm  ; — 'tis  surely  there  ; — she  waves 
Her  pallid  hand  in  circle  o'er  thy  head, 
As  if  to  bless  thee  ;  and  I  bless  thee  too, 
Death's  gracious  angel !     Do  not  turn  away. 

Iim.     Gods  !  to  what  office  have  ye  doomed  me!     Now! 

[  Jo7^  raises  his  arm  to  stab  Adrastus.  ivho  is  kneeling^  and 
gazes  steadfastly  upon  him.  TJie  voice  of  Medon  is  /leard 
without,  calling,  '•  Ion  !  Ion  !"     Ion  drops  his  arm.'] 

Adras.     Be  quick,  or  thou  art  lost ! 


\As  Ion  has  again  raised  his  arjn  to  strike,  Medon  rushes  in 
behind  him.] 

Medon.     Ion,  forbear. 
Behold  thy  son,  Adrastus!      \^Ion   stands  for   a   moment 

stupified  ivith  horror,  drops  the  knife,  and  falls  senseless.] 

Adras.     What  strange  words 
A.re  these,  which  call  my  senses  from  the  death 
They  were  composed  to  welcome  ?     Son  !  'tis  false — 
I  had  but  one — and  the  deep  wave  rolls  o'er  him ! 

Medon.     That  wave  received,  instead  of  (he  fair  nursling, 
One  of  the  slaves  who  bore  him  from  thy  sight 
In  wicked  haste  to  slay  ; — I'll  give  thee  proofs. 

Adras.     Great  Jove,   I  thank  thee !  raise  him  gently — 
proofs ! 
Are  there  not  here  the  lineaments  of  her 
Who  made  me  happy  once — the  voice,  now  still. 
That  bade  the  lonfi^-sealed  fount  of  love  gush  out,  ' 
K  14* 


162  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

While  with  a  prince's  constancy  he  came 
To  lay  his  noble  life  down ;  and  the  sure, 
The  dreadful  proof,  that  he  whose  guileless  brow 
Is  instinct  with  her  spirit,  stood  above  me, 
Armed  for  the  traitor's  deed  ? — it  is  my  child  ! 

[Ion,  reviving^  sinks  on  one  knee^  before  Adrastus.] 

Ion.     Father!     [Woise  without  1 

Medon.     The  clang  of  arms ! 

Ion.     [^Starting  up.]     They  come  !  they  come! 
They  who  are  leagued  with  me  against  thy  life. 
Here  let  us  fall. 

Adras.     I  will  confront  them  yet. 
Within  I  have  a  weapon  which  has  drank 
A  traitors  blood  ere  now  ;  there  will  I  wait  them : 
No  power  less  strong  than  death  shall  part  us  now. 

\E,xeunt  Adrastus  and  Ton.,  as  into  an  inner  chamber^ 

Medon.     Have  mercy  on  him.  gods,  for  the  dear  sake 
Of  your  most  single-hearted  worshiper. 

\Ii.nter  Ctesijihon.  Cassander^  and  other s.] 

Ctesiphon.     What  treachery  is  this  ? — the  tyrant  fled, 
And  Ion  fled  too !     Comrades,  stay  this  dotard, 
While  I  search  in  yonder  chamber. 

Medon.     Spare  him.  friends, — 
Spare  him  to  clasp  awhile  his  new-found  son ; 
Spare  him,  as  Ion's  father! 

Cte.     Father  i   yes — 
That  is  indeed  a  name  to  bid  me  spare : — 
Let  me  but  find  him.  gods  !   [^Rushes  into  the  inner  chamber.  ] 

Medon.    [  To  Cassander  and  the  others.]    Had  ye  but  seen 
What  I  have  seen,  ye  would  have  mercy  on  him. 

[  Cyrthes  enters  with  soldiers.] 
Ha !  soldiers  !  hasten  to  defend  your  master  ; 
That  way — \^As  Cyrthes  is  about  to  enter  the  inner  cfiamber. 
Ctesiphon  rushes  from  it  with  a  bloody  dagger  and  stops 
them.] 

Cte.     It  is  accomplished  ;  the  foul  blot 
Is  wiped  away.     Shade  of  my  murdered  father, 
Look  on  thy  son.  and  smile ! 

Cyrthes.     Whose  blood  is  that  ? 
It  cannot  be  the  king's ! 

Cte.     It  cannot  be  I 
Think'st  thou,  foul  minion  of  a  tyrant's  will, 
He  was  to  crush,  and  thou  to  crawl  forever? 
Look  there,  and  tremble ! 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  16S 

Cyr.     Wretch  !  thy  life  shall  pay 
The  forfeit  of  this  deed.     [  Cyrthes  and  soldiers  seize  Ctesi- 
phon:'] 

[Enter  Adrastus,  mortally  wounded^  supported  by  Ion.'\ 

Adras.     Here  let  me  rest. 
In  this  old  chamber  did  my  life  begin, 
And  here  I'll  end  it.     Cyrthes  !  thou  hast  timed 
Thy  visit  well,  to  bring  thy  soldiers  hither, 
To  gaze  upon  my  parting. 

Cyr.     To  avenge  thee ; 
Here  is  the  traitor ! 

Adras.     Set  him  free  at  once ; 
Why  do  ye  not  obey  me?     Ctesiphon, 
I  gave  thee  cause  for  this ;  believe  me  now, 
That  thy  true  steel  has  made  thy  vengeance  sure ; 
And  as  we  now  stand  equal,  I  will  sue 
For  a  small  boon  — let  me  not  see  thee  more. 

Cte.     Farewell!     \_Exit.'] 

Adras.  [  To  Cyrthes  and  soldiers.']  Why  do  ye  tarry  here  1 
Begone  ! — still  do  ye  hover  round  my  couch? 
If  the  commandment  of  a  dying  king 
Is  feeble,  as  a  man  who  has  embraced 
His  child  for  the  first  time  since  infancy, 
And  presently  must  part  with  him  forever, 
I  do  adjure  ye.  leave  us !  [Exeunt  all  but  Ion  and  Adrastus.l 

Ion.     Oh,  my  father ! 
How  is  it  with  thee  now  ? 

Adras.     Well ;  very  well ; 
Avenging  Fate  hath  spent  its  utmost  force 
Against  me ;  and  I  gaze  upon  my  son, 
With  the  sweet  certainty  that  naught  can  part  us 
Till  all  is  quiet  here.     How  like  a  dream. 
Seems  the  succession  of  my  regal  pomps, 
Since  I  embraced  thy  helplessness !     To  me 
The  interval  hath  been  a  weary  one : 
How  hath  it  passed  with  thee  \ 

Ion.     But  that  my  heart 
Hath  sometimes  ached  for  the  sweet  sense  of  kindred, 
I  had  enjoyed  a  round  of  happy  years 
As  cherished  youth  e'er  knew. 

Adras.     I  bless  the  gods 
That  they  have  strewn  along  thy  humble  path, 
Delights  unblamed ;  and  in  this  hour  I  seem 
Even  as  I  had  lived  so ;  and  I  feel 


164  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

That  I  shall  live  in  thee,  unless  that  curse — 
Oh,  if  it  should  survive  me ! 

Ion.     Think  not  of  it ; 
The  gods  have  shed  such  sweetness  in  this  mornentj 
That,  howsoe'er  they  deal  with  me  hereafter, 
I  shall  not  deem  them  angry.     Let  me  call 
For  help  to  staunch  thy  wound ;  thou  art  strong  yet, 
And  yet  may  live  to  bless  me. 

Adras.     Do  not  stir  ; 
My  strength  is  ebbing  fast ;  yet.  as  it  leaves  me, 
The  spirit  of  my  stainless  days  of  love 
Awakens:  and  their  images  of  joy, 
Which  at  thy  voice  started  from  blank  oblivion, 
When  thou  wert  strange  to  me,  and  then  half  shown 
Looked  sadly  through  the  mist  of  guilty  years, 
Now  glimmer  on  me  in  the  lovely  light. 
Which  at  thy  age  ihey  wore.     Thou  art  all  thy  mother's, 
Her  elements  of  gentlest  virtue  cast 
In  mold  heroical. 

Ion.     Thy  speech  grows  fainter ; 
Can  I  do  nothing  for  thee  ? 

Adras.     Yes  : — my  son, 
Thou  art  the  best,  the  bravest,  of  a  race 
Of  rightful  monarchs ;  thou  must  mount  the  throne 
Thy  ancestors  have  filled,  and  by  great  deeds 
Eflace  the  memory  of  thy  fated  sire, 
An-d  win  the  blessings  of  the  gods  for  men 
Stricken  for  him.     Swear  to  me  thou  wilt  do  this. 
And  I  shall  die  forgiven. 

Ion.     I  will. 

Adras.     Rejoice, 
Sufferers  of  Argos  !     I  am  growing  weak. 
And  my  eyes  dazzle :  let  me  rest  my  hands, 
Ere  they  have  lost  their  feeling,  on  thy  head. 
So !  so !  thy  hair  is  glossy  to  the  touch, 
As  when  I  last  enwreathed  its  tiny  curl 
About  my  finger  ;   I  did  imagine  then. 
Thy  reign  excelling  mine;  it  is  fulfilled, 
And  I  die  happy.     Bless  thee,  King  of  Argos !     [^Dies^ 

Ion.     He's  dead  !  and  I  am  fatherless  again. 
King,  did  he  hail  me?     Shall  I  make  that  word 
A  spell  to  bid  old  happiness  awake 
Throughout  the  lovely  land  that  father'd  me 
In  my  forsaken  childhood  \ 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  165 

[He  sees  the  hnife  on  the  ground^  and  picks  it  up.1 
The  voice  of  joy  ! 

Is  this  thy  funeral  wailing?     Oh,  my  father! 
Mournful  and  brief  will  be  the  heritage 
Thou  leavest  me  ;  yet  I  promised  thee  in  death, 
To  grasp  it;  and  I  will  embrace  it  now. 

[Enter  Agenor  and  others.'] 

Agenor.     Does  the  king  live? 

Ion.     Alas  !  in  me.     The  son 
Of  him  whose  princely  spirit  is  at  rest, 
Claims  his  ancestral  honors. 

Age.     That  high  thought 
Anticipates  the  prayer  of  Argos,  roused 
To  sudden  joy.     The  sages  wait  without 
To  greet  thee :  wilt  confer  with  them  to-night, 
Or  wait  the  morning  ? 

Ion.     Now — the  city's  state 
Allows  the  past  no  sorrow.     I  attend  them.       [Exeunt^ 


XXXVIL— FROM  WILLIAM  TELL.— /TnoW^s. 

GESLER SARNEM RODOLPH GERARD LUTOLD SENTINEL 

TELL VERNER ERNI MELCTAL FURST MICHAEL 

THEODORE PIERRE ALBERT SAVOYARDS EMMA SOL- 
DIERS  PEOPLE. 

Scene  1.— The  Field  of  Grutli. 

[Enter  Tell,  with  a  long  bow.] 
Tell.     Ye  crags  and  peaks,  I'm  with  you  once  again ! 

I  hold  to  you  the  hands  you  first  beheld, 

To  show  they  still  are  free. 

O,  sacred  forms,  how  proud  you  look  ! 

How  high  you  lift  your  heads  into  the  sky ! 

How  huge  you  are  !  how  mighty  and  how  free  ! 

Ye  guards  of  liberty, 

I'm  with  you  once  again  !     I  call  to  you 

With  all  my  voice  !     I  rush  to  you, 

As  though  I  could  embrace  you  ! 

Erni.     [Without:]     William  !  William ! 
Tdl.     [Looks  out.]     Here,  Erni,  here  ! 


166  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

[Enter  Erni.} 

Erni.     Thou'rt  sure  to  keep  the  time, 
That  comes  before  the  hour. 

Tell.     The  hour,  my  friend, 
Will  soon  be  here.     0,  when  will  liberty- 
Be  here  1     My  Erni,  that's  my  thought. 
Scaling  yonder  peak, 
I  saw  an  eagle  wheeling  near  its  brow : 
O'er  the  abyss,  his  broad  expanded  wings 
Lay  calm  and  motionless  upon  the  air. 
Instinctively  I  bent  my  bow  ;  he  heeded  not 
The  death  that  threatened  him,     I  could  not  shoot — 
'Twas  liberty.     I  turned  my  bow  aside, 
And  let  him  soar  away. 

Verner.     [Without.]     Tell!  Tell! 
[Enter  Verner.] 

Tell.     [Crosses  to  him.]     Here,  Verner  ! 

Fur  St.     [Without.]     Tell! 

[Enter  Furst.] 

TeU.     Here,  friends  ! — Well  met.     Do  we  go  on  1 

Ver.     We  do. 

TeU.     Then  you  can  count  upon  the  friends  you  named  1 

Ver.     On  every  man  of  them. 

Furst.     And  I  on  mine. 

Erni.     Not  one  I  sounded,  but  doth  rate  his  blood 
As  water,  in  the  cause  !     Then  fix  the  day 
Before  we  part. 

Ver.     No,  Erni ;  rather  wait 
For  some  new  outrage  to  amaze  and  rouse 
The  common  mind,  which  does  not  brood  so  much 
On  wrongs  gone  by,  as  it  doth  quiver  with 
The  sense  of  present  ones. 

Tell.     [To  Verner.]     I  wish  with  Erni, 
But  I  think  with  thee.     Yet,  when  I  ask  myself. 
On  whom  the  wrong  shall  light,  for  which  we  wait — 
Whose  vineyard  they'll  uproot — whose  flocks  they'll  ravage — 
Whose  threshold  they'll  profane — whose  hearth  pollute — 
Whose  roof  they'll  fire — When  this  I  ask  myself. 
And  think  upon  the  blood  of  pious  sons. 
The  tears  of  venerable  fathers,  and 
The  shrieks  of  mothers,  fluttering  round  their  spoiled 
And  nestless  young  ~  I  almost  take  the  part 
Of  generous  indignation,  that  doth  blush 
At  such  expense  to  wait  on  sober  prudence. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  10? 

Fur  St.     Yet  it  is  best. 

Tell.     On  that,  we're  all  agreed  ! 
Who  fears  the  issue  when  the  day  shall  come  ? 

Ver.     Not  I ! 

Furst      Nor  I ! 

Erni.     Nor  I ! 

Tell.     I'm  not  the  man 
To  mar  this  harmony.     You  commit  to  me 
The  warning  of  the  rest.     Remember,  then, 
My  dagger  sent  to  any  one  of  you — 
As  time  may  press— is  word  enough.     Dear  Erni, 
Remember  me  to  Melctal.     [Crosses.]     Furst,  provide 
AVhat  store  you  can  of  arms.     Do  you  the  same. 

[2'o  Erni  and  Verner.] 
The  next  aggression  of  the  tyrant  is 
The  downfall  of  his  power  !     Reniember  me 
To  Melctal,  Erni — to  my  father.     Tell  him 
He  has  a  son  was  never  born  to  him ! 
Farewell !     When  next  we  meet  upon  this  theme, 
All  Switzerland  shall  witness  what  we  do.  [Exeunt.'\ 


Scene  2. — Tell's  Cottage,  with  mountain  and  lake  scenery. 

[Enter  Emma.] 

Emma.     0,  the  fresh   morning  !     Heaven's   kind   mes- 
senger, 
That  never  empty-handed  comes  to  those 
Who  know  to  use  its  gifts.     Praise  be  to  Him 
Who  loads  it  still,  and  bids  it  constant  run 
The  errand  of  his  bounty.     Praise  be  to  him  ! 
[Enter  Albert.] 

Albert.     My  mother ! 

Emma.     Albert !     Bless  thee  ! 
How  early  were  you  up  ? 

Alb.     Before  the  sun. 

Emma.     Ay,  strive  with  him.     He  never  lies  abed 
When  it  is  time  to  rise.     Be  like  the  sun. 

Alb.     What  you  would  have  me  like,  I'll  be  like, 
As  far  as  will,  to  labor  joined,  can  make  me. 

Emma.     Well  said,  my  boy !    Knelt  you,  when  you  got  up 
To-day? 

Alb.     I  did  ;  and  do  so  every  day. 

Emma.     I  know  you  do  ! 


168  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

And  think  you,  when  you  kneel, 
To  whom  you  kneel  1 

Aid.     To  Him  who  made  me,  mother 

E'nima.     And  in  whose  name  ? 

Alb.  In  the  name  of  Him^  who  died 
For  me  and  all  men,  that  all  men  and  I 
Should  live. 

Bmma.     That's  right !    Remember  that,  my  son :    " 
Forget  all  things  but  that  — remember  that ; 
'Tis  more  than  friends  or  fortune  :  clothing,  food ; 
All  things  of  earth  ;  yea,  life  itself — It  is 
To  live  when  these  are  gone,  where  they  are  naught, 
With  God  ! — My  son,  remember  that ! 

Alb.     I  will ! 

Emma.     I'm  glad  you  husband  what  you're  taught 
That  is  the  lesson  of  content,  my  son ; 
He  who  finds  which,  has  all — who  misses,  nothing. 

Alb.     Content  is  a  good  thing. 

Emma.     A  thing,  the  good 
Alone  can  profit  by. 

Alh.     My  father's  good. 

Emma.     What  sayest  thou,  boy  ? 

Alh.     I  say,  my  father's  good. 

Emma.     Yes,  he  is  good  !  what  then  ? 

Alb.     I  do  not  think 
He  is  content — I'm  sure  he's  not  content ; 
Nor  would  I  be  content,  were  I  a  man. 
And  Gesler  seated  on  the  rock  of  Altorf! 
A  man  may  lack  content,  and  yet  be  good. 

Emma      I  did  not  say  all  good  men  found  content 
I  would  be  busy ;  leave  me. 

Alh.     You're  not  angry  ? 

Emma.     No,  no,  my  boy. 

Alb.     You'll  kiss  me  ? 

Emma.     Will  I  not ! 
The  time  will  come,  you  will  not  ask  your  mother 
To  kiss  you ! 

Alb.     Never ! 

Emma.     Not  when  you're  a  man  ? 

Alb.     I'll  never  be  a  man  to  see  that  time : 
I'd  rather  die,  now,  when  I  am  a  child, 
Than  live  to  be  a  man.  and  not  love  you  ! 

E^nma      Live — live  to  be  a  man,  and  love  your  mother! 
\Tliey  embrace. — Albert  runs  qff\  into  the  cottage.'] 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  169 

Why  should  my  heart  sink  ?  'tis  for  this  we  rear  them  i 

Cherish  their  tiny  limbs  ;  pine,  if  a  thorn 

But  mar  their  tender  skin  ;  gather  them  to  us 

Closer  than  miser  hugs  his  bags  of  gold  ; — 

To  send  them  forth  into  a  wintry  world, 

To  brave  its  flaws  and  tempests  !— Nestling  as 

He  is.  he  is  the  making  of  a  bird 

Will  own  no  cowering  wing. 

\_Re-enter  Albert^  from  cottage^  loith  a  bow  and  arrows^  and 

a  rude  target^  which  he  sets  up  during  tJie  first  lines,  lay- 
ing the  bow  and  quiver  on  the  ground.'] 
What  have  you  there  ? 

Alb.     My  bow  and  arrow,  mother. 

Emma.     When  will  you  use  them  like  your  father,  boy? 

Alb.     Some  time,  I  hope. 

Emma      You  brag  !     There's  not  an  archer 
In  all  Helvetia  can  compare  with  him. 

Alb.     But  I'm  his  son  ;  and  when  I  am  a  man, 
I  may  be  like  him      Mother,  do  I  brag. 
To  think  1  sometime  may  be  like  my  father  ? 
If  so,  then  is  it  he  that  teaches  me  ! 
For,  ever  as  I  wonder  at  his  skill, 
He  calls  me  boy,  and  says  I  must  do  more, 
Ere  I  become  a  man. 

Emma.     May  you  be  such 
A  man  as  he — if  Heaven  wills,  better, — I'll 
Not  quarrel  with  its  work ;  yet  'twill  content  me. 
If  you  are  only  such  a  man. 

Alb.     I'll  show  you 
How  I  can  shoot.     \_Shoots  at  the  target.]     Look,  mother  1 

there's  within 
An  inch ! 

Emma.    0  fie  !  it  wants  a  hand.    [  Goes  into  the  cottage  ] 

Alb.     A  hand's 
An  inch  for  me.    I'll  hit  it  yet.    Now  for  it!    [Shoots  again.] 
[Enter  Tell^  watching  Albert  some  time  in  silence.] 

Tell.     That's  scarce  a  miss,  that  comes  so  near  the  mark ! 
Well  aimed,  young  archer !     With  what  ease  he  bends 
^The  bow !     To  see  those  sinews,  who'd  believe 
Such  strength  did  lodge  in  them?     That  little  arm, 
His  mother's  palm  can  span,  may  help,  anon, 
To  pull  a  sinewy  tyrant  from  his  seat. 
And  from  their  chains  a  prostrate  people  lift 

15 


170  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

To  liberty.     I'd  be  content  to  die, 
Living  to  see  that  day.     What  Albert ! 

Alb.     Ah ! 
My  father  !     [Running  to  Tell,  who  OTibraces  him.'] 

Emma.     [Running  from  cottage.']     William  !  welcome ! 
welcome !  William  1 
I  did  not  look  for  you  till  noon,  and  thought 
How  long  'twould  be  ere  noon  would  come.     You're  come — 
Now  this  is  happiness  !     Joy's  double  joy, 
That  comes  before  the  time ! 

Tell.     You  raise  the  bow 
Too  fast.     [To  Albert,  who  has  returned  to  his  practice.] 
Bring't  slowly  to  the  eye.     [Albert  shoots.] 
You've  missed. 
How  often  have  you  hit  the  mark  to-day  1 

Alb.     Not  once  yet. 

Ihll.     You're  not  steady.     I  perceived 
You  wavered  now.     Stand  firm  ! — let  every  limb 
Be  braced  as  marble,  and  as  motionless. 
Stand  like  the  sculptor's  statue  on  the  gate 
Of  Altorf,  that  looks  life,  yet  neither  breathes 
Nor  stirs.     [Albert  shoots.]     That's  better ! 

Emma.     William!  William!— 0! 
To  be  the  parents  of  a  boy  like  that ! — 
Why  speak  you  not — and  wherefore  do  you  sigh  ?     [Albert 
shoots.} 

Tell     You've  missed  again  I 
Dost  see  the  mark  ?     Rivet  your  eye  to  it ! 
There  let  it  stick,  fast  as  the  arrow  would, 
Could  you  but  send  it  there. 

Emma.     Why,  William,  don't 
You  answer  me  1     [Albert  shoots.] 

Tell.     Again  !     How  would  you  fare, 
Suppose  a  wolf  should  cross  your  path,  and  you 
Alone,  with  but  your  bow,  and  only  time 
To  fix  a  single  arrow?     'T would  not  do 
To  miss  the  wolf !     You  said  the  other  day. 
Were  you  a  man,  you'd  not  let  Gesler  live. 
'Twas  easy  to  say  that.     Suppose  you,  now, 
Your  life  or  his  depended  on  that  shot ! — 
Take  care  !     That's  Gesler  ! — Now  for  liberty  ! 
Right  to  the  tyrant's  heart! — [Albert  shoots^  and  hits  tlm 

mark.] 
Well  done,  my  boy  ! 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  l7l 

Come  here  ! — Now,  Emma,  I  will  answer  you : 
Do  I  not  love  you  *?     Do  I  not  love  our  child  1 
Is  not  that  cottage  dear  to  me,  where  I 
Was  born  ?     How  many  acres  would  T  give 
That  little  vineyard  for,  which  I  have  watched 
And  tended  since  I  was  a  child  ?     Those  crags 
And  peaks — what  spired  city  would  I  take 
To  live  in,  in  exchange  for  them?     Yet  what 
Are  these  to  me  ?     What  is  this  boy  to  me  ? 
What  art  thou,  Emma,  to  me — when  a  breath 
Of  Gesler's  can  take  all  ? 

Emma.     0,  William!  think 
How  little  is  that  all  to  him — too  little 
For  Gesler,  sure,  to  take.     Bethink  thee,  William, 
We  have  no  treasure. 

Tell.     Have  we  not  I     Have  we 
No  treasure  ?     How  !     No  treasure  ?     What ! 
Have  we  not  liberty? — that  precious  ore. 
That  pearl,  that  gem,  the  tyrant  covets  most, — 
Yea,  makes  a  pawn  of  his  own  soul — to  strip 
The  wearer  of  it !     Emma,  we  have  that. 
And  that's  enough  for  Gesler  ! 

Emma.     Then,  indeed, 
My  William,  we  have  much  to  fear! 

Tell.     We  have ; 
And  best  it  is  we  know  how  much.     Then,  Emma, 
Make  up  thy  mind,  wife ;  make  it  up !     Remember 
What  wives  and  mothers  on  these  very  hills, 
Once  breathed  the  air  you  breathe. 

Emma.     0,  William  ! 

Tell.     Emma,  let  the  boy  alone ; 
Don't  clasp  him  so — 'twill  soften  him.     Go.  sir, 
See  if  the  valley  sends  us  visitors 

To-day ;  some  friend,  perchance,  may  need  thy  guidance. 
Away !  [  Exit  Allert.\  He's  better  from  thee,  Emma;  the  time 
[s  come,  a  mother  on  her  breast  should  fold 
Her  arms,  as  they  had  done  with  such  endearments, 
And  bid  her  children  go  from  her,  to  hunt 
For  danger,  which  will  presently  hunt  them — 
The  less  to  heed  it. 

Em^TTia.     Williain,  you  are  right: 
The  task  you  set  me  I  will  try  to  do. 
I  would  not  live  myself  to  be  a  slave — 
No  !  woman  as  I  am,  I  would  not,  William ! 


J  72  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Tell.     Did  I  not  choose  thee 
From  out  the  fairest  of  the  maids  of  Uri, 
Less  that  in  beauty  thou  didst  them  surpass, 
Than  that  thy  soul  that  beauty  overmatched  ? 
When  I  wedded  thee. 

The  land  was  free.     0  !  with  what  pride  I  used 
To  walk  these  hills,  and  look  up  to  my  God, 
And  bless  him  that  it  was  so.     It  was  free — 
From  end  to  end,  from  cliff  to  lake^  'twas  free  ! 
Free  as  the  torrents  are,  that  leap  our  rocks. 
Or  as  our  peaks,  that  wear  their  caps  of  snow, 
In  very  presence  of  the  regal  sun  ! 
How  happy  was  I  in  it  then  !     I  loved 
Its  very  storms !     Yes,  Emma,  I  have  sat 
In  my  boat  at  night,  when,  midway  o'er  the  lake, 
The  stars  went  out,  and  down  the  mountain  gorge 
The  wind  came  roaring — I  have  sat  and  eyed 
The  thunder  breaking  from  his  cloud,  and  smiled 
To  see  him  shake  his  lightnings  o'er  my  head. 
And  cried  in  thraldom  at  the  furious  wind, 
Blow  on !  this  is  the  land  of  liberty ! 

Emma.     I  almost  see  thee  on  that  fearful  pass ; 
And  yet,  so  seeing  thee,  I  have  a  feeling 
Forbids  me  wonder  that  thou  didst  so. 

Tell.     'Tis 
A  feeling  must  not  breathe  where  Gesler  breathes. 
List,  Emma,  list ! 

A  league  is  made  to  pull  the  tyrant  down, 
E'en  from  his  seat  upon  the  rock  of  Altorf. 
Four  hearts  have  staked  their  blood  upon  the  cast. 
And  mine  is  one  of  them. 

Emm^a.     I  did  not  start ; — 
Tell  me  more,  William. 

Tell.     I  will  tell  thee  all— 

Alb.     {Without.']     0,  father! 

Old  Melctal     [  Without.]     Tell !— Tell  I—William  ! 

Emma.     Don't  you  know 
That  voice  ? 

[E?iter  Old  Melctal,  blind,  led  by  Albert^ 

Old  M.     Where  art  thou,  William? 

Tell.     Whois't? 

Emma.     Do  you  not  know  him? 

Tell.     No  ! — it  cannot  be 
The  voice  of  Melctal ! 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  l73 

Alb.     Father,  it  is  Melctal ! 

Emma.     What  ails  you,  Tell? 

Alb.     0,  father,  speak  to  him. 

Emma.     What  passion  shakes  you  thus  ? 

Tell.     His  eyes — where  are  they  ? — 
Melctal  has  eyes. 

OklM.     Tell!  Tell! 

Tell.    'Tis  Melctal's  voice. 
Where  are  his  eyes  ?     Have  they  put  out  his  eyes 
Father,  speak;  pronounce  the  name 
Of  Gesler ! 

Old  M.     Gesler! 

Tell.     Gesler  has  torn  out 
The  old  man's  eyes  ! — Erni ! 
Where's  Erni  ?     Where's  thy  son  ?     Is  he  alive, 
And  are  his  father's  eyes  torn  out  ? 

Old  M     He  lives,  my  William, 
But  knows  it  not. 

Tell.     When  he  shall  know  it !     Heavens  ! 
When  he  shall  know  it ! — I  am  not  thy  son, 
Yet— 

Emma.     [^Alarmed  at  his  increasing  vehemence.']     Wil- 
liam !     William ! 

Alb.     Father! 

Tell.     Could  I  find 
Something  to  tear — to  rend,  were  worth  it ! — something- 
Most  ravenous  and  bloody  ! — something  like 
Gesler ! — a  wolf! — no,  no  1  a  wolf's  a  lamb 
To  Gesler  !     I  would  let 
The  wolf  go  free  for  Gesler! — Water  !  water! 

Old  M.     What  ails  thee,  William  ? 
I  pray  thee,  William,  let  me  hear  thy  voice  ! 
That's  not  thy  voice  ! 

Tell.     I  cannot  speak  to  thee  ! 

Emma.     [Returning  with  a  vessel  of  water. '\     Here,  Will 
liam. 

Tell.     Emma ! 

Emma.     Drink ! 

Tell.     I  cannot  drink  ! 

Emma.     Your  eyes  are  fixed. 

Tell.     Melctal ! — he  has  no  eyes !     [Bursts  into  tears.'] 
The  poor  old  man  I     [Falls  on  Melctal s  neck.'] 

Old  M.     I  feel  thee,  Tell !     I  care  not 
15* 


iVi  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

That  I  have  lost  my  eyes.     I  feel  thy  tears — 
They're  more  to  me  than  eyes  ! 

Tell.     Here,  here,  sit  down,  father.     \Tell  and  Emma 
help  him  to  a  seat.'] 
I'm  in  such  glee 

For  work — so  eager  to  be  doing — have 
Such  stomach  for  revenge,  I  scarce  can  wait ! 
My  bow  and  quiver.     [^Emma  and  Albert  hand  the??!.]     Ges- 
ler  was  by  ? 

Old  M.     Was  by. 

Tell.     More  arrows  for  my  quiver. 
And  looking  on  ? 

Old  M.     And  looking  on. 

Tell.     [^Putting  arrows  into  his  quiver^     'Twill  do. 
He  would  dine  after  that,  and  say  a  grace. 
Good  heavens ! 

My  staff     He'd  have  his  wine,  too.     How 
The  man  could  look  at  it,  and  drink  it  off, 
And  not  grow  sick  at  the  color  on't !     Enough  ; 
Put  by  the  rest.    [  To  Emma.,  who  has  brought  him-  a  bundle 
of  arrows.]     I'll  grow  more  calm.     [2%e  expression  of 
Emma^s  countena7ice^  as  sJie  assists  to  equip  him.^  catches 
his  eye.] 
I  thank  you  for  that  look ! 

Now  seemest  thou  like  some  kind  o'erseeing  angel. 
Thou  wouldst  not  stay  me  1 

Emma.     No. 

Tell.     Nor  thy  boy,  if  I  required  his  service  ? 

Emma.     No,  William. 

Tell.     Make  him  ready,  Emma. 

Old  M.     No, 
Not  Albert,  William. 

Emma.     Yes,  even  Albert,  father. 
Thy  cap  and  wallet,  boy — thy  mountain  staff — 
Where  hast  thou  laid  it  ?     Find  it — haste  !     Don't  keep 
Thy  father  waiting.     He  is  ready,  William. 

{^Leading  Albert  up  to  Tell.] 

Tell.     Well   done — well   done!     I    thank   you,  love — I 
thank  you  ! 
Now  mark  me,  Albert :  dost  thou  fear  the  snow, 
The  ice-field,  or  the  hail  flaw  ?     Carest  thou  for 
The  mountain  mist,  that  settles  on  the  peak 
When  thou'rt  upon  it  ?     Dost  thou  tremble  at 
The  torrent  roaring  from  the  deep  ravine, 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  l75 

Along  whose  shaking  ledge  thy  track  doth  lie? 
Or  faintest  thou  at  the  thunder  clap,  when  on 
The  hill  thou  art  o'ertaken  by  the  cloud, 
And  it  doth  burst  around  thee  ?     Thou  must  travel 
All  night. 

Alb.     I'm  ready.     Say  all  night  again. 

Tell     The  mountains  are  to  cross,  'for  thou  must  reach 
Mount  Faigel  by  the  dawn. 

Alb.     Not  sooner  shall 
The  dawn  be  there,  than  I. 

Tell.     Heaven  speeding  thee  ! 

Alb.     Heaven  speeding  me  ! 

Tell.     Show  me  thy  staff     Art  sure 
0'  the  point  ?     I  think  'tis  loose.     No — stay — 'twill  do  ! 
Caution  is  speed,  when  danger's  to  be  passed. 
Examine  well  the  crevice — do  not  trust 
The  snow !     'Tis  well  there  is  a  moon  to-night. 
You're  sure  o'  the  track  ? 

Alb.     Quite  sure. 

Tell.     The  buskin  of 
That  leg's  untied.     Stoop  down  and  fasten  it. 
You  know  the  point  where  you  must  round  the  cliff? 

Alb.     I  do. 

Tdl.     Thy  belt  is  slack— draw't  tight. 
Erni  is  in  Mount  Faigel :  take  this  dagger, 
And  give  it  him.     You  know  its  caverns  well ; 
In  one  of  them  you'll  find  him.     Bid  thy  mother 
Farewell.     Come,  boy  ;  we  go  a  mile  together. 
Father,  thy  hand.     [Shakes  hands  with  old  Melctal.] 

Old  M.     How  firm  thy  grasp  is.  William. 

Tell.     There  is  resolution  in  it,  father, 
Will  keep. 

Old  M.     I  cannot  see  thine  eye,  but  I  know 
How  it  looks. 

Tell.     I'll  tell  thee  how  it  looks.     List,  father, 
List.     Father,  thou  shalt  be  revenged  ! 
Lead  him  in,  Emma ;  lead  him  in  ;  the  sun 
Grow^  hot — the  old  man's  weak  and  faint.     Mind,  father, 
Mind,  thou  shall  be  revenged  ! 
Thou  shalt  be  sure,  revenged  !     Come,  Albert.     [Emnia  and 

Melctal    enter   the    cottage. — Exeunt    Tdl    and   Albert 


176  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Scene  3. — A  Mountain,  with  mist. 

[^Enter  Gesler,  zoith  a  hunting  pole.] 

Gesler.     Alone,  alone  !  and  every  step  the  mist 
Thickens  around  me  !     On  these  mountain  tracks 
To  lose  one's  way,  they  say,  is  sometimes  death. 
What  hoa !  holloa  ! — No  tongue  replies  to  me  ! 
What  thunder  hath  the  horror  of  this  silence ! 
Cursed  slaves  ! 

To  let  me  wander  from  them.    [  Thunder.']  Hoa ! — holloa ! — 
My  voice  sounds  weaker  to  mine  ear ;  I've  not 
The  strength  to  call  I  had.  and  through  my  limbs 
Cold  tremor  runs,  and  sickening  faintness  seizes 
On  my  heart !     O,  heaven,  have  mercy  !     Do  not  see 
The  color  of  the  hands  I  lift  to  thee  ! 
Look  only  on  the  strait  wherein  I  stand, 
And  pity  it !     Let  me  not  sink  '     Uphold — 
Support  me  !     Mercy!  mercy!     [He  falls,  fi'om  faintness.] 
[Enter  Albert.] 

Alb.     I'll  breathe  upon  this  level,  if  the  wind 
Will  let  me.     Ha  !  a  rock  to  shelter  me. 
Thanks  to't     A  man,  and  fainting  !     Courage,  friend, 
Courage  !     A  stranger,  that  has  lost  his  way — 
Take  heart — take  heart ;  you're  safe.     How  feel  you  now  ? 
[  Gives  him  drink  from  afia*k.] 

Ges.     Better. 

Alb.     You  have  lost  your  way  upon  the  hill  ? 

Ges.     I  have. 

Alb.     And  whither  would  you  go? 

Ges      To  Altorf 

Alb.     I'll  guide  you  thither. 

Ges.     You're  a  child. 

Alb.     I  know 
The  way :  the  track  I've  come  is  harder  far 
To  find. 

Ges      The  track  you've  come  1     What  mean  you  ?     Sure 
You  have  not  been  still  farther  in  the  mountains '] 

Alb.     I've  traveled  from  Mount  Faigel. 

Ges.     No  one  with  thee  ? 

Alb.     No  one  but  God. 

Cks.     Do  you  not  fear  these  storms  % 

Alb.     God's  in  the  storm. 

Ges.     And  there  are  torrents,  too, 
That  must  be  crossed. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  l77 

Alb.     God's  by  the  torrent,  loo. 
Ges.     You're  but  a  child. 

Alb.     God  will  be  with  a  child. 

Ges.     You're  sure  you  know  the  way. 

Alb.     'Tis  but  to  keep 
The  side  of  yonder  stream. 

Ges.     But  guide  me  safe, 
I'll  give  thee  gold. 

Alb.     I'll  guide  thee  safe,  without. 

Ges.     Here's  earnest  for  thee.    [Offers gold.}    Here — I'll 
double  that, 
Yea,  treble  it,  but  let  me  see  the  gate 
Of  Altorf.     Why  do  vou  refuse  sfold  ? 
Take't. 

Alb.     No. 

Ges.     You  shall. 

Alb.     I  will  not. 

Ges.     Why? 

Alb.     Because 
I  do  not  covet  it ;  and,  though  I  did, 
It  would  be  wrong  to  take  it  as  the  price 
Of  doing  one  a  kindness. 

Ges.     Ha  ! — who  taught 
Thee  that  ? 

Alb.     My  father. 

Ges.     Does  he  live  in  Altorf? 

Alb.     No,  in  the  mountains. 

Ges.     How ! — a  mountaineer  ? 
He  should  become  a  tenant  of  the  city ; 
He'd  gain  by't. 

Alb.     Not  so  much  as  he  might  lose  uy  t. 

Ges.     What  might  he  lose  by't  ? 

Alb.     Liberty. 

Ges.     Indeed ! 
He  also  taught  thee  that  ? 

Alb.     He  did. 

Ges.     His  name  ? 

Alb.     This  is  the  way  to  Altorf,  sir. 

Ges.     I'd  know 
Thy  father's  name. 

Alb.     The  day  is  wasting — we 
Have  far  to  go. 

Ges.     Thy  father's  name,  I  say  ? 

Alb.     I  will  not  tell  it  thee. 
L 


178  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Ges.     Not  tell  it  me  ! 
Why? 

Alb.     You  may  be  an  enemy  of  his. 

Ges.     May  be  a  friend. 

Alb.     May  be  ;  but  should  you  be 
An  enemy — although  I  would  not  tell  you 
My  father's  name,  I'd  guide  you  safe  to  Altor£ 
Will  you  follow  me  ? 

Ges.     Ne'er  mind  thy  father's  name  : 
What  would  it  profit  me  to  know't  ?     Thy  hand  ; 
We  are  not  enemies. 

Alb.     I  never  had 
An  enemy. 

Ges.     Lead  on. 

Alb.     Advance  your  staff, 
As  you  descend,  and  fix  it  well.     Come  on. 

Ges.     What,  must  we  take  that  steep? 

Alb.     'Tis  nothing.     Come, 
I'll  go  before — ne'er  fear.     Come  on — come  on  I    [Exeunt.] 


Scene  4. — The  gate  of  Altorf. 

[E7iter  Gesler  and  Albert^ 

Alb.     You're  at  the  gate  of  Altorf     [Returning?^ 

Ges.     Tarry,  boy ! 

Alb.     I  would  be  gone ;  I  am  waited  for. 

Ges.     Come  back  ! 
Who  waits  for  thee  ?     Come,  tell  me  ;  I  am  rich 
And  powerful,  and  can  reward. 

Alb.     'Tis  close 
On  evening ;  I  have  far  to  go  !     I'm  late. 

Ges.     Stay  !     I  can  punish,  too. 
Boy,  do  you  know  me  ? 

Alb.     No. 

Ges.     Why  fear  you,  then, 
To  trust  me  with  your  father's  name  ? — Speak  ! 

Alb.     Why 
Do  you  desire  to  know  it  ? 

Ges.     You  have  served  me, 
And  I  would  thank  him,  if  I  chanced  to  pass 
His  dwelling. 

Alb.     'Twould  not  please  him  that  a  service 
So  trifling  should  be  made  so  much  of. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  l79 

Ges.     Trifling ! 
You've  saved  my  life. 

Alb.     Then  do  not  question  me, 
But  let  me  go. 

Ges.     When  I  have  learned  from  thee 
Thy  father's  name.     What,  hon  !     \^Knocks  at  the  gate.'] 

Sentinel.     [  Within^     Who's  there  % 

Ges.     Gesler  !     [  TJie  gate  is  opened.'] 

Alb.     Ha,  Gesler ! 

Ges.     [7b  the  soldiers.]     Seize  him  ! — Wilt  thou  tell  me 
Thy  father's  name  ? 

Alb.     No ! 

Ges.     I  can  bid  them  cast  thee 
Into  a  dungeon  !     Wilt  thou  tell  it  now  ? 

Alb.     No! 

Ges.     I  can  bid  them  strangle  thee !     Wilt  tell  it  ? 

Alb.     Never ! 

Ges.     Away  with  him !     Send  Sarnem  to  me. 

[Soldiers  lead  off  Albert.'] 
Behmd  that  boy,  I  see  the  shadow  of 
A  hand  must  wear  my  fetters,  or  'twill  try 
To  strip  me  of  my  power.     How  I  loathed  the  free 
And  fearless  air  with  which  he  trod  the  hill ! 
But  he's  in  my  power ! — Some  way 
To  find  the  parent  nest  of  this  fine  eaglet, 
And  harrow  it.     I'd  like  to  clip  the  broad 
And  full-grown  wing,  that  taught  his  tender  pinion 
So  bold  a  flight. 

\Enter  Sarnem^ 

Ges.     Ha,  Sarnem !     Have  the  slaves 
Attended  me,  returned  ? 

Sarnem.     They  have. 

_Ges.     You'll  see 
That  every  one  of  them  be  laid  in  fetters  ? 

Sar.     I  will. 

Ges.     Didst  see  the  boy  ? 

Sar.     That  passed  me? 

Ges.     Yes. 

Sar.     A  mountaineer. 

Ges.     You'd  say  so.  saw  you  him 
Upon  the  hills;  he  walks  them  like  their  lord! 
I  tell  thee,  Sarnem,  looking  on  that  boy, 
I  felt  that  I  was  not  master  of  those  hills. 
He  has  a  father — neither  promises 


ISO  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Nor  threats  could  draw  from  him  his  name — a  father 
Who  talks  to  him  of  liberty  !     I  fear 
That  man. 

Sar.     He  may  be  found. 

Ges.     He  must ;  and  soon 
As  found  disposed  of     I  can  see  the  man  ; 
He  is  as  palpable  to  my  sight,  as  if 
He  stood,  like  you,  before  me.     I  can  see  him 
Scaling  that  rock  ;  yea,  I  can  feel  him,  Sarnem, 
As  I  were  in  his  grasp,  and  he  about 
To  hurl  me  o'er  yon  parapet.     I  live 
In  danger,  till  I  find  that  man.     Send  parties 
Into  the  mountains,  to  explore  them  far 
And  wide  ;  and  if  they  chance  to  light  upon 
A  father  who  expects  his  child,  command  them 
To  drag  him  straight  before  us.     Sarnem,  Sarnem, 
They  are  not  subdued.     Some  way  to  prove 
Their  spirit ! — Take  this  cap,  and  have  it  set 
Upon  a  pole  in  the  market-place,  and  see 
That  one  and  all  do  bow  to  it ;  whoe'er 
Resists,  or  pays  the  homage  sullenly, 
Our  bonds  await  him.     Sarnem,  see  it  done. 

[Exit  Sar9iem.'\ 
We  need  not  fear  the  spirit  that  would  rebel, 
But  dares  not : — that  which  dares,  we  will  not  fear. 

[Exit,  accompanied  hy  soldiers.^ 

Scene  5. — The  Market-Place. 

[Burghers  and  Feasants^  with  Pierre^  Theodm-e^  and  Sa- 
voyards ^  discovered.] 

CHORUS. 

Pierre.     Come,  come,  another  strain. 

Theodore.     A  cheerful  one. 

Savoyards.     What  shall  it  be  ? 

Theo.     No  matter,  so  'tis  gay. 
Begin. 

Sav.     You'll  join  the  burden? 

Theo.     Never  fear. 
Go  on. 

\ Savoyard  sings,  during  which,  Tell  and  Verner  enter  ;  the 
fwmer  leans  upon  his  bow^  and  listens  gloomily.'] 


SEUIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  181 

The  Savoyard  from  clime  to  clime 
Tunes  his  strain  and  sings  his  rhyme ; 
And  still,  whatever  clime  he  sees, 
His  eye  is  bright,  his  heart's  at  ease. 
For  gentle,  simple — all  reward 
The  labors  of  the  Savoyard 

The  rich  forget  their  pride— the  great 
Forget  the  splendor  of  their  state, 
Whene'er  the  Savoyard  they  meet, 
And  list  his  song,  and  say  'tis  sweet ; 
For  titled,  wealthy — none  regard 
The  fortune  of  the  Savoyard. 

But  never  looks  his  eye  so  bright, 
And  never  feels  his  heart  so  light. 
As  when  in  beauty's  smile  he  sees 
His  strain  is  sweet,  his  rhyme  doth  please. 
O  that's  the  praise  doth  best  reward 
The  labors  of  the  Savoyard. 

But,  though  the  rich  retained  their  pride, 
And  though  the  great  their  praise  denied, — 
Though  beauty  pleased  his  song  to  slight, 
His  heart  would  smile,  his  eye  be  bright ; 
His  strain  itself  would  still  reward 
The  labors  of  the  Savoyard. 

[^The people  shout ^  laugh ^  »5*c.] 

Ver.     Now,  Tell, 
Observe  the  people.     [The  people  have  gathered  to  one  side, 
and  look  in  the  opposite  direction^  with  appreJiension 
and  trouble^ 
Tell.     Ha  !  they  please  me  now — I  like  them  now — their 
looks 
Are  just  in  season.     There  has  surely  been 
Some  shifting  of  the  wind,  upon  such  brightness, 
To  bring  so  sudden  lowering. 
Ver.     We  shall  see. 
Fie.     'Tis  Sarnem ! 

Theo.    {Looking  out.]    What  is  that  he  brings  with  him,! 
Pie.     A  pole  ;  and  on  the  top  of  it  a  cap 
That  looks  like  Gresler's — I  could  pick  it  from 
A  hundred. 

16 


182  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Theo.     So  could  I.     My  heart  hath  oft 
Leaped  at  the  sight  of  it.     What  comes  he  now 
To  do? 

[Enter  Sarnem,  tvith  soldiers,  bearing  Gesler^s  cap  upon  a 
pole  which  he  fixes  into  the  ground ;  the  people  looking 
on,  in  sihnce  and  amazement.  Tlie  guards  station 
themselves  on  the  right  of  tJie  pole.'\ 

Sar.     Ye  men  of  Altorf ! 
Behold  the  emblem  of  your  master's  power 
And  dignity.     This  is  the  cap  of  Gesler, 
Your  governor:  let  all  bow  down  to  it, 
Who  owe  him  love  and  loyalty.     To  such 
As  shall  refuse  this  lawful  homage,  or 
Accord  it  sullenly,  he  shows  no  grace, 
But  dooms  them  to  the  penalty  of  bondage. 
Till  they're  instructed.     'Tis  no  less  their  gain 
Than  duty,  to  obey  their  master's  mandate. 
Conduct  the  people  hither,  one  by  one, 
To  bow  to  Gesler's  cap. 

Tell.     Have  I  my  hearing  ?     [Peasants  pass,  taking  off 
their  hats  and  bowing  to  Gesler'' s  cap,  as  they  pass.] 

Ver.     Away !     Away ! 

Tell.     Or  sight  ?— They  do  it,  Yerner ! 
They  do  it ! — Look  ! — Ne'er  call  me  man  again ! 
I'll  herd  with  baser  animals  ! 
Look  ! — look  !     Have  I  the  outline  of  that  caitiff, 
Who  to  the  servile  earth  doth  bend  the  crown, 
His  Grod  did  rear  for  him  to  heaven  ? 

Ver.     Away, 
Before  they  mark  us. 

Tell.     No  !  no  ! — Since  I've  tasted, 
I'll  e'en  feed  on. 

A  spirit's  in  me  likes  it.     I  will  not  budge, 
Whatever  be  the  cost ! 

Sar.     [Striking  a perso7i.'\     Bow  lower,  slave! 

Tell.     Do  you  feel 
That  blow — my  flesh  doth  tingle  with't. 
I  would  it  had  been  I !  • 

Ver.     You  tremble,  William.     Come,  you  must  not  stay. 

Tell.  Why  not?— What  harm  is  there?  I  tell  thee,  Yerner, 
I  know  no  difference  'twixt  enduring  wrong, 
And  living  in  the  fear  on't. 

[Enter  Michael  through  the  crowd.^ 

Sar.     Bow,  slave 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL  183 

Michael.     For  what?     \^Laughs^ 

Sar.     Obey,  and  question  then. 

Mic.     I'll  question  now,  perhaps  not  then  obey. 

Tell.     A  man  ! — a  man  ! 

Sar.     'Tis  Gesler's  will  that  all 
Bow  to  that  cap. 

Mic.     Were  it  thy  lady's  cap, 
I'd  couitesy  to  it. 

Sar.     Do  you  mock  us,  friend  ? 

Mic.     Not  1.     I'll  bow  to  Gresler.  if  you  please ; 
But  not  his  cap,  nor  cap  of  any  he 
In  Christendom ! 

Tell.     Well  done ! 
The  lion  thinks  as  much  of  cowering. 

Sar.     Once  for  all,  bow  to  that  cap. 
Do  you  hear  me,  slave  ? 

Mic.     Slave!' 

Tell.     A  man ! — I'll  swear,  a  man  !  Don't  hold  me,  Verner. 

Sar.     Villain,  bow 
To  Gesler's  cap ! 

Mic.     No— not  to  Gesler's  self ! 

Sar.     Seize  him ! 

Tell.    [Rushing  forward.']    Off,  off,  you  base  and  hireling 
pack ! 
Lay  not  your  brutal  touch  upon  the  thing 
God  made  in  his  own  image. 

Sar.     What!  shrink  you,  cowards?     Must  I  do 
Your  duty  for  you  ? 

Tell.     Let 'them  but  stir — I've  scattered 
A  flock  of  .wolves,  that  did  outnumber  them, — 
For  sport  I  did  it.     Sport ! — I  scattered  them 
With  but  a  staff,  not  half  so  thick  as  this. 
[  Wrests   Sarne7v)s  weapon  from  him.     Sarnem  and  sol- 

diersjiy.] 
Ye  men  of  Altorf, 

What  fear  ye?     See  what  things  you  fear — the  shows 
And  surfaces  of  men  I     Why  stand  you  wondering  there  ? 
Why  gaze  you  thus  with  blanched  cheeks  upon  mo  ? 
Lack  you  the  manhood  even  to  look  on. 
And  see  bold  deeds  achieved  by  others'  hands  ? 
Or  is't  that  cap  still  holds  you.  slaves,  to  fear  ? 
Be  free,  then  !     There  !     Thus  do  1  trample  on 
The  insolence  of  Gesler  I     [Throws  down  the  pole.] 

Sar.     [Suddenly  entering,  with  soldiers.]     Seize  him  ! 


164  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

[^All  the  people,  eoxepi  Verner  arid  Michael^  ^y.\ 
Tell.     Ha! 
Surrounded ! 

Mic.     Stand  !— I'll  back  thee  ! 

Ver.     Madman  ! — Hence  !     [Forces  Michael  off.'] 

Sar.     Upon  him,  slaves  ! — Upon  him  all  at  once!     [Telly 

after  a  struggle.^  is  secured.^  and  tJiey  proceed  to  chain 

him.'] 
Tell.     Slave ! 

Sar.     Rail  on  !  thy  tongue  has  yet  its  freedom. 
Tell.     Slave  I 

Sar.     On  to  the  castle  with  him — forward  1 
Tell.     Slave!  [ExeurU.] 

Scene  6. — A  Chamber  in  the  Castle. 

\ Enter  Gesler,  with  Rodolph^  Lutold,  Gerard^  officers.,  Sar- 
nem,  and  soldiers,  with  Tell,  in  chains.] 

Sar.     Down,  slave ! 
Behold  the  governor.     Down !  down !  and  beg 
For  mercy ! 

Ges.     [Seated.]     Does  he  hear? 

Sar.     Submission,  slave  !     Thy  knee  ! — thy  knee  ! 
Or  with  thy  life  thou  playest. 

Rodolph.     Let's  force  him  to 
The  ground. 

Ges.     Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ?     He  smiles. 

Gerard.     Why  don't  you  smite  him  for  that  look  ? 

Ges.     He  grasps 
His  chains  as  he  would  make  a  weapon  of  them. 
To  lay  the  smiter  dead. 

Why  don't  they  take  him  from  my  sight  ? — they  stand 
Like  things  entranced  by  some  magician's  spell  I 

\Kises.]     They  must  not  see 
Me  thus.   Come,  draw  thy  breath  with  ease — thou'rt  Gesler — 
Their  lord  ;  and  he's  a  slave  thou  lookest  upon  !     {Aside^ 
Why  speakest  thou  not? 

Tell.     For  wonder. 

Ges.     Wonder ! 

Tell.     Yes, 
That  thou  should st  seem  a  man. 

Ges.     What  should  I  seem  ? 

Tell.     A.  monster ! 

Ges.     Ha  !     Beware — think  on  thy  chains. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  185 

Tdl.     Though  they  were  double,  and  did  weigh  me  down 
Prostrate  to  the  earth,  methinks  I  could  rise  up 
Erect  with  nothing  but  the  honest  pride 
Of  telling  thee,  usurper,  to  the  teeth, 
Thou  art  a  monster  !     Think  upon  my  chains ! 
How  came  they  on  me  ? 

Ges.     Darest  thou  question  me  ? 

Tell.     Darest  thou  not  answer  1 

Ges.     Do  I  hear  ? 

Tell.     Thou  dost. 

Ges.     Beware  my  vengeance  ! 

Tell.     Can  it  more  than  kill  ? 

Ges.     Enough — it  can  do  that. 

Tell.     No  ;  not  enough  : 
It  cannot  take  away  the  grace  of  life — 
Its  comeliness  of  look  that  virtue  gives — 
Its  port  erect  with  consciousness  of  truth — 
Its  rich  attire  of  honorable  deeds — 
Its  fair  report  that's  rife  on  good  men's  tongues; 
It  cannot  lay  its  hands  on  these,  no  more 
Than  it  can  pluck  his  brightness  from  the  sun. 
Or  with  polluted  finger  tarnish  it. 

Ges.     But  it  can  make  thee  writhe. 

Tell.     It  may. 

Ges.     And  groan. 

Tell.     It  may ;  and  I  may  cry 
Go  on,  though  it  should  make  me  groan  again. 

Ges.     Whence  com  est  thou  ? 

Tell.     From  the  mountains.     Wouldst  thou  learn 
What  news  from  them  ? 

Ges.     Canst  tell  me  any? 

Tell.     Ay ; 
They  watch  no  more  the  avalanche. 

Ges.     Why  so? 

Tdl.     Because  they  look  for  thee  !     The  hurricane 
Comes  unawares  upon  them ;  from  its  bed 
The  torrent  breaks,  and  finds  them  in  its  track — 

Ges.     What  do  they  then? 

Tell.     Thank  heaven  it  is  not  thou  ! 
Thou  hast  perverted  nature  in  them. 
There's  pot  a  blessing  heaven  vouchsafes  them,  but 
The  thought  of  thee  doth  wither  to  a  curse. 

Ges.     That's  right !     I'd  have  them  like  tHeir  hills, 
16* 


186  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

That  never  smile,  though  wanton  summer  tempt 
Them  e'er  so  much. 

Tell.     But  they  do  sometimes  smile 

Ges.     Ay  ! — when  is  that  ?     [  Crosses.\ 

Tell.     When  they  do  talk  of  vengeance. 

Ges.     Vengeance !     Dare 
They  talk  of  that  ? 

Tell.     Ay,  and  expect  it,  too. 

Ges.     From  whence? 

Tell.     From  heaven  ! 

Ges.     From  heaven  % 

Tell.     And  the  true  hands 
Are  lifted  up  to  it  on  every  hill, 
For  justice  on  thee. 

Ges.     Where's  thy  abode  ?  * 

Tell.     I  told  thee — in  the  mountains. 

Ges      Art  married  ? 

Tell.     Yes. 

Ges.     And  hast  a  family  ? 

Tell.     A  son. 

Ges.  ^Ason!     [Crosses.] 
Sarnem ! 

Sar.     My  lord,  the  boy  !    [  Gesler  signs  to  Sarnem  to  keep 
silence,  and.,  whispering .^  sends  hirii  off.l 

Tell     The  boy !— what  boy  ? 
Is't  mine  1 — And  have  they  netted  my  young  fledgeling  % 
Now  heaven  support  me,  if  they  have  ! — He'll  own  me, 
And  share  a  father's  ruin !     But  a  look 
Would  put  him  on  his  guard — yet  how  to  give  it! 
Now,  heart,  thy  nerve :  forget  thou'rt  flesh — be  rock. 
They  come — they  come  ! 
That  step — that  step — that  little  step,  so  light 
Upon  the  ground,  how  heavy  does  it  fall 
Upon  my  heart !     I. feel  my  child  ! — 'tis  he  ! 
We  can  but  perish. 

[Enter  Sarnem,  with  Albert,  ivhose  eyes  are  riveted  on  TetPs 
bow,  which  Sarnem  carries^ 

Alb.     [Aside.']     'Tis  my  father's  bow, 
For  there's  my  father. 

Sar.     See ! 

AW.     What? 

Sar.     Look  there ! 

Alb.     I  do ;  what  would  you  have 
Me  see  ? 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  187 

Sar.     Thy  father 

Alb.     My  father ! 

2HI.     My  boy — my  boy  ! — my  own  brave  boy  !  He's  safe ! 

Sar.     [Aside,  to  Gesler.]     They're  like  each  other. 

Ges.     Yet  I  see  no  sign 
Of  recognition,  to  betray  the  hnk 
Unites  a  father  and  his  child. 

Sar.     My  lord, 
I'm  sure  it  is  his  father.     Look  at  them. 
It  may  be 

A  preconcerted  thing  'gainst  such  a  chance. 
That  they  survey  each  other  coldly  thus. 

Ges.     [Rises.]     We  shall  try. 
Lead  forth  the  caitiff 

Sar.     To  a  dungeon  ? 

Ges.     No; 
Into  the  court. 

Sar.     The  court,  my  lord  ? 

Ges.     And  send 
To  tell  the  headsman  to  make  ready.     Quick  I 
The  slave  shall  die  !     You  marked  the  boy  ? 

Sar.     I  did. 
He  started—  'tis  his  father. 

Ges.     We  shall  see. 
Away  with  him ! 

Tell.     Stop  !— stay  ! 

Ges.     What  would  you  ? 

Tell     Time  — 
A  little  time  to  call  my  thoughts  together. 

Ges.     Thou  shalt  not  have  a  minute. 

Tell     Some  one,  then, 
To  speak  with. 

Ges.     Hence  with  him. 

Tell.     A  moment — stop  ! 
Let  me  speak  to  the  boy. 

Ges.     Is  he  thy  son  ? 

Tell     And  if 
He  were,  art  thou  so  lost  to  nature,  as 
To  send  me  forth  to  die  before  his  face  ? 

Ges.     Well,  speak  with  him.     Now,  Sarnem,  mark  them 
well.     [Albert  goes  tj  Tell.\ 

Tell.     Thou  dost  not  know  me.  boy ;  and  we.l  for  thee 
Thou  dost  not.     I'm  the  father  of  a  son 
About  thy  age.     Thou, 


188  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

I  see,  wast  born,  like  him,  upon  the  hills : 

If  thou  shouldst  'scape  thy  present  thraldom,  he 

May  chance  to  cross  thee  ;  if  he  should,  I  pray  thee 

Relate  to  him  what  has  been  passing  here, 

And  say  I  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  head, 

And  said  to  thee — if  he  were  here,  as  thou  art, 

Thus  would  I  bless  him  :  Mayst  thou  live,  my  boy, 

To  see  thy  country  free,  or  die  for  her, 

As  I  do ! 

Sar.     Mark  ! — He  weeps  * 

Tell.     Were  he  my  son, 
He  would  not  shed  a  tear :  he  would  remember 
The  cliff  where  he  was  bred,  and  learned  to  scan 
A  thousand  fathoms  depth  of  nether  air  ; 
Where  he  was  trained  to  hear  the  thunder  talk. 
And  meet  the  lightning  eye  to  eye !     Where  last 
We  spoke  together — when  I  told  him  death 
Bestowed  the  brightest  gem  that  graces  life, 
Embraced  for  virtue's  sake, — he  shed  a  tear  ! 
Now,  were  he  by,  I'd  talk  to  him,  and  his  cheek 
Should  never  blanch,  nor  moisture  dim  his  eye  — 
I'd  talk  to  him — 

Sar.     He  falters. 

2HI.     'Tis  too  much  ! 
And  yet  it  must  be  done !     I'd  talk  to  him^ — 

Ges.     Of  what? 

Tell.     [Turns  to  Gesler.]     The  mother,  tyrant,  thou  dost 
make 
A  widow  of !     I'd  talk  to  him  of  her.     [Turns  to  Albert.'] 
I'd  bid  him  tell  her,  next  to  liberty. 
Her  name  was  the  last  word  my  lips  pronounced ; 
And  I  would  charge  him  never  to  forget 
To  love  and  cherish  her,  as  he  would  have 
His  father's  dying  blessing  rest  upon  him  ! 

Sar.     You  see,  as  he  doth  prompt,  the  other  acts.    - 

Tell.     [Aside.]     So  well  he  bears  it,  he  doth  vanquish  me. 
My  boy  !  my  boy  !  — Oh,  for  the  hills — the  hills; 
To  see  him  bound  along  their  tops  again. 
With  liberty ! 

Sar.     Was  there  not  all  the  father  in  that  look? 

Ges.     Yet,  'tis  against  nature. 

Sar.     Not  if  he  believes 
To  own  the  son,  would  be  to  make  him  share 
The  father's  death. 


SERIOUS     A.ND    SENTIMENTAL.  189 

Ges  I  did  not  think  of  that.— 'Tis  well 
The  boy  is  not  thy  son  :  I've  destined  him 
To  die  along  with  thee. 

Tell.     To  die !     For  what  ? 

Ges.     For  having  braved  my  power,  as  thou  hast 
Lead  them  forth. 

Tell.     He's  but  a  child. 

Ges.     Away  with  them  ? 

Tell.     Perhaps  an  only  child. 

Ges.     No  matter. 

Tell.     He  may  have  a  mother. 

Ges.     So  the  viper  hath  ; 
And  yet  who  spares  it  for  the  mother's  sake  ? 

Tell.     I  talk  to  stone  !     I  talk  to  it  as  though 
'Twere  flesh,  and  know  'tis  none.     I'll  talk  to  it 
No  more.     Come,  my  boy, 
I  taught  thee  how  to  live — I'll  show  thee  how  to  die. 

Ges.     He  is  thy  child  ? 

Tell.     [Embraces  Albert.]     He  is  my  child ! 

Ges.     I've  wrung  a  tear  from  him.     Thy  name  ? 

Tell.     My  name  ?— 
It  matters  not  to  keep  it  from  thee,  now  ; 
My  name  is  Tell. 

Ges.     Tell !— William  Tell? 

Tell.     The  same. 

Ges.     What !  he  so  famed  'bove  all  his  countrymen. 
For  guiding  o'er  the  stormy  lake,  the  boat  ? 
And  such  a  master  of  his  bow,  'tis  said 
His  arrows  never  miss  ! — Indeed — I'll  take 
Exquisite  vengeance  ! — Mark !  I'll  spare  thy  life, 
Thy  boy's  too. — Both  of  you  are  free — on  one 
Condition. 

Tell.     Name  it. 

Ges.     I  would  see  you  make 
A  trial  of  your  skill,  with  that  same  bow 
You  shoot  so  well  with. 

Tell.     Name  the  trial  you 
Would  have  me  make.     [Tell  looks  on  Albert.'] 

Ges.     You  look  upon  your  boy, 
As  though  instinctively  you  guessed  it. 

Ges.     Look  upon  my  boy  !  What  mean  you  ? — Look  upon 
My  boy,  as  though  I  guessed  it !     Gruessed  the  trial 
You'd  have  me  make  !     Guessed  it 
Instinctively  !     You  do  not  mean — no — no — 


190  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

You  would  not  have  me  make  a  trial  of 
My  skill  upon  my  child  !     Impossible  i 
I  do  not  guess  your  meaning. 

Ges.     I  would  see 
Thee  hit  an  apple  at  the  distance  of 
A  hundred  paces. 

Tell.     Is  my  boy  to  hold  it  1 

Ges.     No. 

Tell.     No  ! — I'll  send  the  arrow  through  the  core 

Ges.     It  is  to  rest  upon  his  head. 

Tell.     Great.  Heaven, 
Thou  hearest  him  ! 

Ges.     Thou  dost  hear  the  choice  I  give^ 
Such  trial  of  the  skill  thou'rt  master  of, 
Or  death  to  both  of  you,  not  otherwise 
To  be  escaped. 

Tell.     Oh,  monster ! 

Ges.     Wilt  thou  do  it  7 

Aid.     He  will !  he  will ! 

Tell.     Ferocious  monster !     Make 
A  father  murder  his  own  child ! 

Ges.     Take  off 
His  chains,  if  he  consent. 
.  Tell.     With  his  own  hand ! 

Ges.     Does  he  consent  ? 

Alb.  He  does.  [  Gesler  signs  to  his  officers^  who  proceed 
to  take  off  TelVs  chains — Tell  all  tJie  while  uncon- 
scious of  what  they  do.'\ 

Tell.     With  his  own  hand ! 
Murder  his  child  with  his  own  hand  ! 
The  hand  I've  led  him,  when  an  infant,  by  ! 
'Tis  beyond  horror — 'tis  most  horrible. 
Amazement !     {His  chains  fall  off.']     What's  that  you  have 

done  to  me  ? 
Villains  !     [To  t lie  guards.]    Put  on  my  chains  again.    My 

hands 
Are  free  from  blood ;  and  have  no  gust  for  it, 
That  they  should  drink  my  child's ! — Here  ! — here  ! — I'll  not 
Murder  my  boy  for  Gesler. 

Alb.     Father— father ! 
You  will  not  hit  me,  father ! 

Tell.     Hit  thee  !— Send 
The  arrow  through  thy  brain — or,  missing  that. 
Shoot  out  an  ere — or,  if  thine  eye  escapes. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  191 

Mangle  the  cheek  I've  seen  thy  mother's  lips 
Cover  with  kisses  ! — Hit  thee  ! — Hit  a  hair 
Of  thee,  and  cleave  thy  mother's  heart ! 

Ges.     Dost  thou  consent  ] 

Tell.     Give  me  my  bow  and  quiver. 

Ges.     For  what  ? ' 

Tell     To  shoot  my  boy  ! 

Alb.     No,  father  !  no, 
To  save  me  ! — You'll  be  sure  to  hit  the  apple. 
Will  you  not  save  me,  father  ? 

Tell.     Lead  me  forth. — 
I'll  make  the  trial ! 

Alb.     Thank  you  ! 

Tell.     Thank  me  !— Do 
You  know  for  what? — I  will  not  make  the  trial, 
To  take  him  to  his  mother  in  my  arms, 
And  lay  him  down  a  corse  before  her  !     [Crosses.'] 

Ges.     Then 
He  dies  this  moment ;  and  you  certainly 
Do  murder  him.  whose  life  you  have  a  chance 
To  save,  and  will  not  use  it. 

Tell.     Well— I'll  do  it. 
I'll  make  the  trial. 

Alb.     [Runs  up  to  Tell.,  and  embraces  him.']     Father! 

Tell.     Speak  not  to  me  : 
Let  me  not  hear  thy  voice — thou  must  be  dumb  ; 
And  so  should  all  things  be — earth  should  be  dumb'. 
And  heaven — unless  its  thunders  muttered  at 
The  deed,  and  sent  a  bolt  to  stop  it ! — Give  me 
My  bow  and  quiver ! 

Ges.     When  all's  ready. 

Tell.     Well!     Lead  on !     [Exeunt.] 

Scene  7. — Without  the  Castle. 

[  Enter  slowly.,  people  in  evident  distress — Rodolph.,  Officers, 
Sarnem.,  Gesler.,  Tell.,  Albert — a  Soldier,  bearing  TelVs 
hovj  and  quiver.,  another  with  a  basket  of  apples — Soldiers^ 
Sfc] 

Ges.     That  is  your  ground.     Now  shall   they  measure 
thence 

A  hundred  paces.     Take  the  distance 
Tell.     Is 

The  line  a  true  one  ? 


192  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Ges.     True  or  not,  what  is't 
To  thee  ? 

Tell     What  is't  to  me  ?     A  little  thing, 
A  very  little  thing — a  yard  or  two 
Is  nothing  here  or  there — were  it  a  wolf 
I  shot  at !     Never  mind. 

Ges.     Be  thankful,  slave, 
Our  grace  accords  thee  life  on  any  terms. 

Tell.     I  will  be  thankful,  Gesler  ! — Villain,  stop  ! 
You  measure  to  the  sun. 

Ges.     And  what  of  that  ? 
What  matter,  whether  to  or  from  the  sun  ? 

Tell.     I'd  have  it  at  my  back. — The  sun  should  shine 
Upon  the  mark,  and  not  on  him  that  shoots. 
I  cannot  see  to  shoot  against  the  sun. — 
I  will  not  shoot  against  the  sun ! 

Ges.     Give  him  his  way  ! — Thou  hast  cause  to  bless  my 
mercy. 

Tell.     I  shall  remember  it.     I'd  like  to  see 
The  apple  I'm  to  shoot  at. 

Ges.     Show  me 
The  basket ! — There ! — [  Gives  a  very  small  apple.'] 

Tell.     You've  picked  the  smallest  one. 

Ges.     I  know  I  have. 

Tell.     0  !  do  you  ? — But  you  see 
The  color  on't  is  dark — I'd  have  it  light, 
To  see  it  better. 

Ges.     Take  it  as  it  is : 
Thy  skill  will  be  the  greater,  if  thou  hittest  it. 

Tell.     True — true — I  didn't  think  of  that — I  wonder 
I  did  not  think  of  that. — Give  me  some  chance 
To  save  my  boy! — [^Throws  away  the  apple.,  with  all  his 

force.'] 
I  will  not  murder  him, 
If  I  can  help  it. — for  the  honor  of 
The  form  thou  wearest.  if  all  the  heart  is  gone — 

Ges.     Well !  choose  thyself     [HaTtds  a  basket  of  apples. 
Tell  takes  one.] 

Tell     Have  I  a  friend  among 
The  lookers  on  ? 

Ver.     Here,  Tell ! 

Tell.     I  thank  thee,  Verner ! 
He  is  a  friend  runs  out  into  a  storm 
To  shake  a  hand  with  us.     I  must  be  brief 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  193 

When  once  the  bow  is  bent,  we  cannot  take    ' 

The  shot  too  soon.     Verner,  whatever  be 

The  issue  of  this  hour,  the  common  cause 

Must  not  stand  still.     Let  not  to-morrow's  sun 

Set  on  the  tyrant's  banner. — Verner !     Yerner  ! 

The  boy  ! — the  boy  ! — Think'st  thou  he  has  the  courage 

To  stand  it? 

Ver.     Yes. 

Tell.     Does  he  tremble  ? 

Ver.     No. 

Tell.     Art  sure  ? 

Ve?'.     I  am. 

Tell.     How  looks  he  7 

Ver.     Clear  and  smilingly. 
If  you  doubt  it,  look  yourself. 

Tell.     No  — no — my  friend  ; 
To  hear  it  is  enough. 

Ver.     He  bears  himself 
So  much  above  his  years — 

Tell.     I  know ! — I  know. 

Ver.     With  constancy  so  modest — 

Tell.     I  was  sure 
He  would — 

Ver.     And  looks  with  such  relying  love 
And  reverence  upon  you. 

Tell.     Man  !  man  !  man  ! 
No  more !     Already  I'm  too  much  the  father, 
To  act  the  man  ! — Yerner,  no  more,  my  friend ! 
I  would  be  flint — flint — flint.     Don't  make  me  feel 
I'm  not — you  do  not  mind  me  ! — Take  the  boy 
And  set  him,  Yerner,  with  his  back  to  me. 
Set  him  upon  his  knees — and  place  the  apple 
Upon  his  head,  so  that  the  stem  may  front  me — 
'i  hus. — Yerner,  charge  him  to  keep  steady — tell  him 
I'll  hit  the  apple! — Yerner,  do  all  this 
More  briefly  than  I  tell  it  thee. 

Ver.     Come.  Albert !     [Leading  him  behind.^ 

Alb.     May  I  not  speak  with  him,  before  I  go  ? 

Ver.     No. 
Alb.     I  would  only  kiss  his  hand. 

Ver.     You  must  not. 

Alb.     I  must! — I  cannot  go  from  him  without! 

Ver.     It  is  his  will  you  should. 

M  IV 


194  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Alb.     His  will,  is  it? 
r  am  content,  then — come. 

Tell.     My  boy  !     [^Holding  out  his  arms  to  hi'm>.'\ 

Alb.     My  father  !     [litm?iing  into  Tell's  ar?)is.] 

Tell.     If  thou  canst  bear  it,  should  not  I  ? — Gro  now. 
My  son — and  keep  in  mind  that  I  can  shoot. 
Go.  boy — be  thou  but  steady,  I  will  hit 
The  apple.     [Kisses  him.']     Go! — God  bless  thee — go. 
My  bow  !     [Sarnein  gives  the  bow.] 
Thou  wilt  not  fail  thy  master,  wilt  thou  ? — Thou 
Hast  never  failed  him  yet,  old  servant — -No, 
I'm  sure  of  thee — I  know  thy  honesty ; 
Thou'rt  stanch  -  stanch.  Let  me  see  my  quiver.  [Retires  up.] 

Ge^.     Give  him  a  single  arrow. 

Tell.     Do  you  shoot  ? 

Lutold.     I  do. 

Tell.     Is't  so  you  pick  an  arrow,  friend  ? 
The  point,  you  see.  is  bent,  the  feather  jagged. 
That's  all  the  use  'tis  fit  for.     [B7-eaks  it.\ 

Gcs.     Let  him  have 
Another.     [Tell  exaniines  another^ 

Tell.     Why,  'tis  better  than  the  first. 
But  yet  not  good  enough  for  such  an  aim 
As  I'm  to  take.     'Tis  heavy  in  the  shaft : 
I'll  not  shoot  with  it !     [Throws  it  away.]     Let  me  see  my 

quiver. 
Bring  it !  'tis  not  one  arrow  in  a  dozen 
I'd  take  to  shoot  with  at  a  dove,  much  less 
A  dove  like  that ! 

Ges.     It  matters  not — 
Show  him  the  quiver.    [Tell  kneels  and  picks  out  an  arrow^ 
concealing  one  under  his  dress^ 

Tell.     See  if  the  boy  is  ready. 

Yer.     He  is. 

Tell.     I'm  ready,  too! — Keep  silence,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  and  do  not  stir — and  let  me  have 
Your  prayers — your  prayers — and  be  my  witnesses. 
That  if  his  life's  in  peril  from  my  hand, 
'Tis  only  for  the  chance  of  saving  it. 
Now,  friends,  for  mercy's  sake,  keep  motionless  and  silent 

Ges.     Go  on  I 

Tell.  I  will.  [Tell  shoots,  and.  a  shout  of  exultation 
bursts  from  the  crowd.  Tells  head  drops  on  his  bosom ; 
fie  with  difficulty  supports  himself  upon  his  bow.] 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  195 

Ver.     [Bushing  in,  with  Albert.']     The  boy  is  safe ;  no 
hair  of  him  is  touched ! 

Alb.     Father.  I'm  safe — your  Albert's  safe.     Dear  father 
Speak  to  me !  speak  to  me ! 

Ver.     He  cannot,  boy  ! 

Alb.     You  grant  him  life*? 

Ges.     I  do. 

Alb.     And  we  are  free  1 

Ges.     You  are.     [Crossing  angrily  behind.'] 

Alb.     Thank  heaven  !  thank  heaven  ! 

Ver.     Open  his  vest. 
And  give  him  air.     [Albert  opens  hisfather'*s  vest^  and  an 
arrow  drops.      Tell  starts,  fixes  his  eyes  on  Albert,  and 
clasps  him  to  his  breast.] 

Tell.     My  boy  !  my  boy  ! 

Ges.     For  what 
Hid  you  that  arrow  in  jour  breast?     Speak,  slave! 

Tell.     To  kill  thee,  tyrant,  had  I  slain  my  boy ! 

Ges.     My  guards  !  secure  him  ! 

Tell     Tyrant,  every  hill  shall  blaze 
With  vengeance. 

Ges.     Slaves,  obey  me  ! 

Tell.     Liberty 
Shall  at  thy  downfall  shout  from  every  peak ! 

Ges.     Away  with  him !     [Guards  seize  him.'] 

Tell.     My  country  shall  be  free  !  [Exeunt.] 

Scene  8. — Gesler's  Castle — a  Lake  in  view. 

[Enter  Gesler,  Rodolph,  and  officers.] 

Ges.     How  say  you  ? — Urni  in  commotion  ? 

Rod.     Yes ; 
Our  scouts  report  on  sure  intelligence. 

Ges.     [  Calling.  ]     S  am  e  m  ! 

[Enter  Sarnem.] 

Sar.     My  lord. 

Ges.     The  bark — is't  ready?     Hurry  it! 
A.nd  lead  him  from  his  dungeon.    [Exit  Sarnem.]    He  shall 

change 
His  prison  for  a  stronger ;  then,  perhaps, 
I'll  rest.     Yet,  if  I  close  my  eyes  sleep  only  draws 
Her  curtain  round  my  thoughts,  to  shut  them  in 
With  restlessness,  from  which  they  turn  to  watching, 
As  to  refreshment. 


196  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES, 

[Re-enter  Sarnem.'] 

Sar.     Now,  my  lord — 

Ges.     [Catching  hold  of  him.] 

Sar.     My  lord,  what  moves  you  ? 

Ges.     We  are  so 
Beset  with  traitors,  Sarnem,  we  forget 
The  voices  of  our  friends.     The  bark  is  ready  ? 

Sar.     It  is,  my  lord. 

Ges.     Our  prisoner,  too?     That's  well ! 
What  kind  of  night  ? 

Sar.     The  wind  is  rising. 

G^s.     The  night  will  be  a  rough  one. 

Sar.     'Twill  be  a  storm. 
My  lord,  'twere  well  you  ventured  not  yourself; 
Those  lakes  are  dangerous  at  night ;  the  course 
Is  long. 

Ges.     No,  Sarnem,  I  must  see  the  slave 
Disposed  myself     My  castle  on  the  lake's 
Impregnable.     The  storm  I  fear. 
Is  that  we  carry  with  us.     Tell's  the  cloud 
From  which  I  dread  a  thunderbolt !  [Exeunt.] 

Scene  9. — A  mountain,  with  a  view  of  the  Lake  Lucerne. 

[Enter  Emma.,  leading  Old  Melctal.] 

Old  M.     I  keep  thee  back? 

Emma.     No. 

Old  M     I'm  sure  I  do. 

Emma.     x\nd  if  you  do,  it  matters  not — we've  gained 
The  cliff     Should  Erni  come,  how  lies  the  track 
From  this,  he'll  take  ? 

Old  M.     The  lake's  in  view? 

Emma.     It  is. 

Old  M.     Then  set  me  fronting  it.     Now.  as  I  point, 
Seest  thou  the  shoulder  of  a  wooded  hill. 
That  overlooks  the  rest?     [Fainting.] 

Emma.     I  see  it  well. 

Old  M.     Another  hill's  in  front  of  it? 

Emma.     There  is. 

Old  M.     His  track  lies  o'er  the  verge  of  that  same  hill. 
And  so  exact  from  this,  what  moves  upon't 
Is  plainly  seen  betwixt  the  sky  and  you. 
Discern  you  aught  upon't? 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  197 

Einma.     I  think  I  do. 
Yes — yes,  I  do. 

Old  M.     What  dost  thou  see  upon  that  hill,  my  child? 

Emma.     Figures  of  men  in  motion  :  but  as  dim 
As  shadows  yet. 

Old  M.    'Tis  Erni !     0  that  I 
Had  eyes  to  see  the  shadow  of  my  child ! 

0  blessed  are  they  that  see  ! — They  twice  embrace 
The  precious  things  they  love. — If  it  be  they. 
They'll  soon  be  here. 

Emma.     Too  late.  I  fear ;  too  late 
To  save  my  husband  and  my  child.     Why  fled 
The  churl  soon  as  he  told  us  they  were  in 
The  tyrant's  power?     [CroMe.9.] 

Old  M.     Blame  not  his  haste,  my  child, 
'Twas  sure  for  good. 

Er)ima.     I  see  a  bark  upon 
The  lake.     I  think  I  see  the  gleam 
Of  lances  in  the  bark — I'm  sure  I  do ! 

Old  M.     Likely,  my  child  :  the  tyrant  and  his  guards, 
Perhaps  are  there.     He  has  a  hold,  you  know, 
Upon  the  lake — a  castle,  stronger  far 
Than  that  at  Altorf 

Emma.     Father — father  ! 

Old  M.     What ! 
What  moves  you  so,  my  child  ? 

Emma.     The  form  of  him     [Looks  out.] 
Who  steers  the  bark,  is  like — 

Old  M.     Like  whose  ? 

Emma.     My  husband's ! 
Yes — yes  !     'Tis  William  ! — So  he  holds  the  helm  ; 
I'd  know  him  at  the  helm  from  any  man 
That  ever  steered  a  bark  upon  the  lake. 

1  fear  —I  fear  ! — 

Old  M.   *What  is't  you  fear,  my  daughter ! 
[s't  the  lake  ? 

Emma.     No.  no !     The  lake  is  rough  ; 
Ohafed  with  the  storm  of  yesternight — 'tis  rough  , 
But  'tis  not  that  I  fear.     What  business  have 
The  lances  in  that  bark?     What's  that  he  does? 
He  steers  her  right  upon  a  rock  ! — 'Tis  in 
Despair :  and  there  he'll  die  before  my  eyes  ! — 
Ha !  what ! — What's  that  ?     He  springs  upon  the  rock  ! 
He  flies !  —he's  free  ! — but  they  pursue  him  ! 

17* 


198  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Old  M.     See  how  our  friends  come  on. 
If  it  were  they,  they  should  be  nearer  now. 

Bmma.     They  are  ! — They  are  ! 

Old  M.     Let's  haste  to  meet  them,  then, 
The  track — the  track  ! — Let  us  trust  to  them 
For  aid.  Don't  look  behind.   Come  on — come  on  !  \^E(ceunt.'\ 
[^Enter  Tell  fro  tu  an  eminence.^ 

Tell.     Whene'er  I  choose,  I  have  the  speed  of  them, 
Nor  dare  they  shoot :  so  oft  as  they  prepare, 
If  I  but  bend  my  bow,  the  terror  of 
The  deadly  aim  alone  transfixes  them. 
That  down,  they  drop  their  weapons  by  their  sides, 
And  stand  and  gaze,  with  lapsed  power,  as  though 
In  every  heart  an  arrow  from  my  bow 
Stood  quivering.     I  knew  that  beetling  cliff 
Would  cost  them  breath  to  climb.     They  top  it  now. 
Ha  !     \_Bends  his  how.']     Have  I  brought  you  to  a  stand 

again  ? 
I'll  keep  you  there,  to  give  your  master  time 
To  breathe.     Poor  slaves  !  no  game  are  you  for  me  ; 
But  could  I  draw  the  tyrant  on,  that  shrinks 
Behind  you. — There  he  is !     [Bends  his  bow.] 

\_Enter  Archers  and  Spearmen,  followed  by  Gesler.] 

Ges.     Wherefore  do  you  fly  ! 

Tell.     Wherefore  do  you  pursue  me  ?     Said  you  not 
You'd  give  me  liberty,  if  through  the  storm 
I  safely  steered  your  prow  ?     The  waves  did  then 
Lash  over  you  ;  your  pilot  left  the  helm  ; 
I  took  it,  and  they  reared  their  heads  no  more, 
Unless  to  bow  them,  and  give  way  to  me, 
And  let  your  pinnace  on.     You  did  repeat 
Your  promise.     You  twice 
Promised  me  liberty.     I  only  take 
What  you  did  promise. 

Ges.     Traitor,  'twas  your  place  * 

To  wait  my  time. 

Tell.     It  would  have  been,  had  I 
Believed  that  time  would  come.     If  I'm  a  prize 
Worthy  to  take,  why  hang  you  thus  behind 
Your  minions  ?     Why  not  lead  the  chase  yourself? 
Lack  you  the  manhood  e'en  to  breast  the  sport 
You  love  ? 

Ges.     Transfix  the  slave  with  all  your  darts, 
At  once. 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  109 

Tell.     Ha  !     [  Takes  aim  again — they  drop  their  iveapons^ 
ivhiclt  they  hod  half  raised.  ~\ 
Follow  me  !     Keen  huntsmen  they, 

The  game  itself  must  urge.     Keep  up   the   chase !      [He 
rushes  out.] 
Ges.     You  keep  too  close  together.     Spread  yourselves, 
That  some  of  you  may  hit  him  unawares. 
His  quiver  full  of  ducats,  to  the  man 
That  brings  him  down.    On,  cowards  -  on,  I  say !  \_Eoceunt.'\ 

Scene  10. — The  outside  of  Gesler's  Castle. 

^Enter    Gesler^s    guards,   retreating   in  great  haste  and 
confusion — Tell  closely  following^  vnth  bended  bow.] 

Tell.     Fly  !  fly  !  ye  base,  ignoble  cowards,  fly ! 
\Enter  Erni,  Furst^  Melctal,  Emma,  Verner.,  and  peopled] 
Welcome,  my  worthy  friends.     The  chase  is  o'er, 
The  prize  is  won. — An  arrow  from  this  bow 
Hath  felt  the  last  throb  of  the  tyrant's  heart. 
My  country's  free  !     Yes  Switzers.  once  again 
Ye  breathe  the  air  of  glorious  liberty  ! 

People.     Huzza — huzza  I 

Alb.     [Rushing  on  the  stage.]     'Tis  liberty,  my  father; 
Oh  !  'tis  liberty  !  [Exeunt.] 


Prince  Henry.  My  heart  bleeds  inwardly,  that  my  father  is  so  sick  ;  and  ke^p 
ing  such  vile  company  as  thou  art,  hath  in  reason  taken  from  me  all  ostentation  of 
ionoyf.— Henry  IT.,  Part  //. 


200  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


XXXVIIL— A  DEBATE.— iJow^on. 

Question. — "Which  is  of  the  greatest  benefit  to  his  country— the 
Warrior — the  Statesman — or  the  Poet  ? 

FIRST  SPEAKER SECOND  SPEAKER THIRD  SPEAKER — ^FOURTH 

SPEAKER  FIFTH     SPEAKER  SIXTH     SPEAKER SEVENTH 

SPEAKER EIGHTH   SPEAKER ^NINTH  SPEAKER. 

First  Speaker. — Sir,  The  question  which  I  have  under- 
taken to  open,  isj  I  think,  one  of  considerable  importance 
and  interest.  We  are  to  be  called  upon  to  say — Which  is 
of  the  greatest  benefit  to  his  country — the  Warrior, — the 
Statesman, — or  the  Poet?  The  Warrior  is  the  man  who 
directs  the  physical  strength  of  his  nation — the  man  who 
fights  its  battles,  repulses  its  invaders,  holds  discontent  in 
check,  and  defends  its  rights  at  the  hazard  of  his  life :  the 
Statesman  is  the  man  who  directs  the  mental  force  of  his 
nation  ;  who  by  his  keen  intellect  devises  laws,  avoids  evils, 
secures  social  order,  and  controls  the  wild  elements  of  pop- 
ular feeling :  and  the  Poet  is  the  man  who  guides  the  moral 
power  of  his  nation  ;  who  teaches  it  truth,  arouses  it  to 
goodness,  and  impresses  it  with  beauty.  Yes.  it  is  im- 
portant to  judge  between  these  three:  to  know  which  is  the 
noblest  kind  of  power ;  to  discern  the  highest  sort  of  great- 
ness. For  our  conduct  depends  in  no  small  measure  upon 
our  opinions  and  according  to  the  idea  that  we  form  of  great- 
ness, shall  we  alone  endeavor  to  be  great.  Moreover,  the 
question  is  a  difficult  one.  Much  thought  is  necessary  to 
elucidate  it,  and  much  insight  to  determine  it  with  truth. 
It  is  like  judging  between  the  different  members  of  the 
body.  For  the  Warrior  is  the  arm, — the  Statesman  the 
head, — and  the  Poet  the  heart,  of  the  community:  and  just 
as  it  is  difficult  to  choose  between  the  members  of  the  body 
physical,  so  is  it  difficult  to  choose  between  the  members  of 
the  body  politic.  I  shall  wait.  sir.  to  hear  the  sentiments 
of  others  before  I  decide,  and  for  the  present  shall  content 
myself  with  this  simple  introduction  of  the  question,  trusting 
that  it  will  receive  that  full  discussion  which  it  merits. 

Second  Speaker. — Sir,  I  quite  agree  with  the  opener,  that 
he  has  presented  us  with  a  difficult  subject  for  debate.  And, 
I  think,  with  all  submission,  that  our  friend  has  increased 
the  difficulty  by  the  selection  of  these  particular  characters 


SKRIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  V.OJ 

For  I  cannot  believe  that  they  are  the  best  representatives 
that  he  could  have  found,  of  the  different  kinds  of  force  be- 
tween which  he  calls  on  us  to  choose.  Granting  that  the 
soldier  fairly  represents  the  physical  strength  of  his  nation. — 
might  we  not  say  with  justice,  that  the  philosopher  is  a  com- 
pleter type  of  its  mind  than  the  statesman,  and  the  divine  a 
fairer  emblem  of  its  moral  power  than  the  poet  ?  To  make 
the  question  more  debatable,  however,  without  materially 
altering  the  opener's  words, — would  it  not  be  better  to  ask — 
Which  is  of  the  greatest  benefit  to  his  country — the  War- 
rior— the  wise  Statesman  -  or  the  Christian  Poet? 

Opener. — Sir,  I  have  no  objection  at  all,  to  the  question 
being  understood  as  the  gentleman  wishes:  though  1  think 
the  distinction  he  has  drawn  is  hardly  necessary.  In  a  cer- 
tain sense  the  Statesman  is  the  philosopher  and  the  Poet  is 
the  divine.  The  Statesman  represents  philosophy,  inasmuch 
as  he  sways  by  mental  strength;  and  the  Poet  represents 
the  divine,  inasmuch  as  he  is  an  apostle  of  eternal  truth, 
and  a  preacher  to  the  soul.  I  avoided  the  terms  •'  philoso- 
pher" and  "'divine"  in  my  question,  because  I  knew  that 
the  words  are  very  often  misused,  and  because  I  feared  that 
instead  of  a  calm  and  temperate  debate,  we  should  be  led 
into  a  wide  field  of  disputed  science  and  theological  contro- 
versy. I  think,  sir,  that  after  this  explanation  the  discussion 
may  be  safely  allowed  to  flow  in  the  channel  which  I  origi 
nally  opened  for  it. 

Second  Spejxker,  (in  continuation.) — I  am  quite  satisfied, 
sir,  with  the  remarks  of  my  friend,  and  shall  proceed  to  con- 
sider the  question  as  he  proposed  it.  We  are  to  judge,  then, 
between  the  warrior,  the  statesman,  and  the  poet :  and  the 
result  of  my  brief  reflections  leads  me  to  speak  in  favor  of 
the  first.  I  do  not  mean  to  deny  the  great  value  of  the 
statesman,  nor  do  I  forget  the  important  mission  of  the  poet; 
but  it  certainly  seems  to  me  that  the  warrior  does  more  for 
his  nation  than  either  of  the  others.  To  him  we  owe  the 
national  safety,  and  that  sense  of  Security  which  develops  all 
our  best  wisdom  and  energy.  The  fame  of  his  valor,  and 
the  prestige  that  attaches  to  his  name,  preserve  his  country 
from  attack ;  or  il  it  is  attacked,  tend  to  secure  for  it  victory 
and  honor.  By  a  beautiful  arrangement  of  Providence,  the 
warrior  is  thus  made  the  harbinger  of  peace.  Of  the  su- 
preme value  of  peace.  I  need  scarcely  speak.  Under  its 
beneficent  smile  commerce  thrives,  science  advances,  the 
arts  flourish,  civilization  spreads  improvement,  and  social 


202  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

happiness  is  secured  to  man.  The  warrior  is  a  practical 
lesson  of  heroism,  too,  to  his  nation.  By  fixing  men's  ad- 
miration on  his  courage,  he  leads  them  to  imitate  it.  One 
hero  makes  many.  There  never  was  a  dauntless  warrior 
yet  who  did  not  raise  a  dauntless  army.  And  this  daunt- 
lessness  is  not  the  mere  passionate  excitement  of  a  moment, 
but  becomes  a  principle,  influencing  the  whole  conduct.  It 
is  not  confined  to  the  field  of  battle  It  teaches  a  man  to 
endure  calamity — to  despise  slander — to  resist  oppression — 
and  to  defend  insulted  right.  Sir,  I  honor  the  hero-warrior 
much.  He  seems  to  me  not  only  a  personification  of  brave- 
ry, but  a  creator  of  it ;  he  plucks  the  sweet  flower  peace  from 
the  sharp  nettle  war  ;  and  he  is  a  constant  incarnation  of  the 
great  and  useful  truth  that  exertion  overcomes  difficulty,  and 
courage  insures  conquest.  With  these  remarks  1  resume 
my  seat. 

TJdrd  Spealxer. — Sir,  If  the  palm  of  merit  is  to  be  accord- 
ed to  that  one  of  the  three  men  before  us,  who  accomplishes 
the  greatest  palpable  and  immediate  good  to  the  community, 
of  which  he  is  a  member.  I  should  unhesitatingly  place  it  on 
the  brow  of  the  statesman.  He  is  the  pilot  who,  seeing 
clearly  and  estimating  carefully  the  dangers  that  surround 
the  vessel,  steers  it  safely  through  them  all :  and  if  we  can 
understand  the  value  of  such  a  helmsman  in  a  ship  at  sea, 
we  can  readily  conceive  the  important  service  that  the  pilot 
of  the  state  performs  for  the  community  he  guides.  His 
value  is  felt  and  seen,  too  :  the  quiet  the  contentment,  the 
harmony  existing  in  the  country,  are  proofs  of  his  ability 
and  power,  which  speak  to  all  at  once,  and  at  once  gain  the 
reward  of  our  admiration. 

But  I  think  we  should  not  judge  thus  superficially.  We 
must  look  deeper  than  this,  if  we  wish  to  reach  the  truth. 
It  is  not  the  most  evident  merit  that  is  always  the  most  real 
and  worthy.  Quiet  influences  often  do  more  than  noisy 
ones.  The  deepest  rivers  always  flow  the  most  silently. 
And  looking  beneath  the  surface  of  the  question  now  in 
hand,  I  seem  to  think  that  the  poet  does  more  true  and  val- 
uable service  to  the  community  than  either  the  soldier  or 
the  statesman.  I  do  not  speak  of  the  mere  rhymer,  of 
course  :  I  mean  the  real  and  great  poet — the  earnest  apostle 
of  truth  and  1  eauty ; — the  man  who.  speaking  to  the  divine 
part  of  humanity,  lifts  it  above  its  mean  and  groveling  pas- 
sions, and  allies  it  permanently  to  what  is  pure  and  noble. 
The  poet's  office  is  one  of  the  highest  that  I  know      It  is  to 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  203 

purify  the  heart, — to  elevate  the  moral  sense, — to  calm  the 
perturbed  spirit  when  agitated  by  its  earthly  trials, — to  re- 
fresh the  tired  soul  with  draughts  from  the  spring  of  eternal 
beauty.  The  poet  is  a  voice  ever  speaking  to  our  immortal 
part,  ever  telling  us  that  earth  is  not  our  final  home.  Were 
there  no  such  voice  to  speak  to  us,  our  souls  would  become 
stupefied  and  lost  in  the  perplexing  cares  and  sordid  ambi- 
tions of  the  world  :  but  as  it  is,  the  poet  continually  reminds 
us  of  our  great  and  lofty  destiny,  and  so  leads  us  more  nobly 
to  fulfil  it.  We  have  a  three  fold  life  ,  a  physical  life,  a  men- 
tal life,  and  a  moral  life  ; — of  these,  the  last  only  is  immortal. 
The  warrior  leads  our  physical  part  the  statesman  our  men- 
tal part,  and  the  poet  our  immortal  part.  For  this  reason  1 
hold  that  the  poet's  is  the  highest  mission  of  the  three. 

Fourth  Speaker. — Sir,  With  much  that  was  admirable  and 
eloquent  in  the  speech  of  the  gentleman  who  has  just  re- 
sumed his  seat,  I  think  there  was  also  much  that  was  vis- 
ionary and  unproved.  The  poet  should  do  all  that  our 
friend  has  described  but  does  he  ?  I  submit  that  this  is 
yet  unshown.  Will  the  gentleman  maintain  that  all  great 
poets  have  purified  the  world  elevated  the  moral  sense,  and 
kept  chaste  the  human  heart  .^  Are  there  no  licentious  po- 
ets? no  skeptical  poets  ?  no  misanthropic  poets?  What  was 
Ovid?  What  was  Shelley  ?  What  was  Byron  ^  Will  our 
friend  pretend  to  say  that  Ovid  is  an  aposlle  of  morality — 
that  Shelley  is  a  teacher  of  holiness — that  Byron  is  a  pro- 
mulgator of  philanthropy  ?  Sir,  if  the  poet's  office  is  to 
teach  what  these  men  teach,  1  must  say  that  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  it  is  very  beneficial  to  mankind.  It  seems  to  me 
that  at  best  the  good  which  the  poet  does  is  visionary.  We 
do  not  see,  we  cannot  trace,  his  influence;  and  how.  then, 
can  we  say  with  certainty,  that  it  is  vast  and  good  ?  I 
think  we  act  much  more  wisely  in  bestowing  our  esteem 
upon  men  whose  work  i.s  perceptible — such  as  the  warrior 
and  the  philosopher  or  statesman  We  see  what  the  soldier 
does,  we  see  what  the  statesman  does — between  them,  there- 
fore^ our  judgment  must  lie.  I  give  my  vote,  without  hesi- 
tation, to  the  warrior.  He  may  not  perhaps  mean  the  most 
good,  but  he  does  the  most.  He  is  the  means  of  extending 
commerce  and  civilization — he  is  a  hero  and  the  creator  of 
heroes — he  introduces  order,  discipline,  and  regularity  into 
the  state — he  is  the  fearless  protector  of  his  country's  rights, 
and  the  patriotic  architect  of  its  renown.  History  seems  to 
say  to  us  that  a  country  always  flourishes  most  under  mili- 


204  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

tary  rule.  Home  proves  this,  Sparta  proves  this.  England 
proves  this.  Rome  was  happiest  when  her  legions  were  the 
most  victorious ;  Greece  was  greatest  when  Miltiades  and 
Leonidas  led  its  arms  to  victory  ;  and  England  was  greatest 
when  Cromwell's  strong  arm  ruled  its  destinies.  The  states- 
man's office  is  a  great  one,  doubtless  ;  but  the  warrior's 
seems  to  me  even  greater.  I,  for  my  part,  would  cheerfully 
give  up  our  Chathams  for  our  Nelsons.  For  the  warrior, 
then,  I  give  my  ready  vote. 

Fiftk  Speaker. — Sir,  I  do  not  wonder  that  so  many  of 
the  speakers  have  adopted  the  cause  of  the  warrior,  for  there 
is  something  very  attractive  in  the  character.  Nay,  at  the 
first  sight  there  is  something  even  beautiful  in  it — very  beau- 
tiful. To  direct  a  mass  of  men  to  the  accomplishment  of  one 
settled  purpose,  to  unite  their  several  energies  in  a  given  di- 
rection, to  fix  one  aim  in  a  hundred  thousand  bosoms,  to  lead 
that  mass  on  to  battle,  and  to  win  the  victory  in  defiance  of 
difficulty,  danger,  and  death,  seems  a  great  and  noble  achieve- 
ment ;  and  in  this  simple  aspect,  it  is  so,  undoubtedly.  The 
fame.  too. — the  glory,  the  universal  acclaim  and  distinction 
that  await "  the  hero  of  a  hundred  fights," — the  trappings — the 
banners — the  excitement  -  the  thrilling  battle-music — the 
•'•  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war;" — all  these 
conspire  to  attract  us  toward  the  military  character,  and  to 
invest  it  with  a  high  degree  of  dignity  and  excellence. 

But  when,  sir,  I  come  to  look  through  these  vestments  of 
the  warrior,  and  see  the  man  himself  to  my  sight  there  is 
not  a  more  melancholy  spectacle.  I  speak  not  now  of  the 
gallant  soldier  who  fights  to  defend  his  home,  his  liberties, 
and  all  he  holds  most  dear  ;  no !  honor  be  to  him  wherever 
he  may  be  !  I  speak  of  the  soldier  by  trade — the  soldier  of 
enterprise  and  conquest — the  soldier  who  fights  for  hire  or 
plunder.  I  called  him  a  melancholy  sight ;  and  so  indeed 
he  is.  For  what  is  he  ?  Let  us  be  plain-;-a  murderer  :  a 
wilful  and  deliberate  murderer  ;  before  whose  cool  atrocity 
the  secret  slaughter  of  the  frenzied  assassin  rises  into  virtue. 
He  goes  into  the  field  of  battle ;  he  deliberately  plans  the 
destruction  of  the  fellow-creatures  opposed  to  him  ;  brings 
the  most  powerful  and  terrible  material  agents  of  the  earth  to 
aid  his  horrid  purpose  ;  and  is  not  satisfied  till  one  or  other 
— perhaps  both — of  the  contending  hosts  are  exterminated. 
i  cannot  conceive  of  murder  more  foul  than  this ;  and  I  ap- 
peal to  all  who  hear  me  whether  this  is  not  the  characteris- 
tic of  the  warrior  in  general?     Survey  your  list  of  heroes  ! 


SERIOUS    AND    RRVTTMENTAL.  205 

Hannibal,  Cassar,  William  the  Conqueror,  Cromwell,  Bona- 
parte;  are  not  the  very  names  synonymous  with  cruelty, 
rapine,  and  murder*?  Oh.  Heaven  forbid  that  after  this  we 
should  ever  look  upon  the  warrior  as  a  benefactor  to  his  na- 
tion !  To  m'  he  seems  its  curse,  its  plague,  its  dishonor.  I 
speak  plainly,  sir,  and  emphatically;  for  I  see  that  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  military  character  has  misled  many  here,  as  it 
has  misled  millions  in  the  world,  and  I  wish,  so  far  as  my 
humble  power  will  let  me,  to  strip  it  of  its  false  glitter,  and 
expose  it  in  its  bare  and  ghastly  deformity.  Between  the 
poet  and  the  statesman  I  can  scarcely  judge  ;  and  I  shall 
wait  before  I  decide.  My  feelings  incline  me  toward  the 
poet,  but  I  have  not  yet  heard  arguments  sufficiently  con- 
vincing to  sway  me  altogether  in  his  favor.  I  rose  chiefly 
to  dispel,  if  possible,  the  false  glory  that  attaches  to  the  war- 
rior, and  if  i  have  in  the  least  succeeded  1  shall  be  perfectly 
content. 

Sixth  Speaker. — I  think,  sir,  that  we  owe  much  to  the 
gentleman  who  has  just  sat  down,  for  the  very  proper  light 
in  which  he  has  placed  the  character  of  one  of  the  three  in- 
dividuals between  whom  we  are  to  judge.  We  are  now  left 
to  choose,  I  fancy,  between  only  two.  The  choice  seems  to 
me  to  be  tolerably  easy.  The  statesman  certainly  appears 
to  deserve  the  higher  honor.  It  has  been  well  said  that  he 
rules  the  mind  of  his  country.  Besides  this,  he  rules  all  the 
external  circumstances  connected  with  the  condition  of  the 
people ;  he  regulates  their  commerce^  their  manufactures, 
their  physical  and  intellectual  improvement.  He  rules  by 
a  noble  style  of  force,  too — the  force  of  intellect.  By  a  stroke 
of  the  pen,  he  does  more  than  the  warrior  can  do  in  fifty  bat- 
tles. His  breath  is  stronger  than  the  roar  of  cannon.  We 
cannot  see  the  statesman  to  greater  advantage  than  by  com- 
paring him  with  the  warrior.  The  warrior  leads  bodily 
strength ;  actual,  tangible  force  :  the  statesman  directs  (by 
invisible  power)  the  minds  of  men  ;  leads  their  reason,  holds 
the  reins  of  their  obedience,  and  represses  discontent  by  the 
simple  force  of  written  law.  His  parchment  conquers  more 
completely  than  the  other's  sword.  His  will  binds  faster 
than  I  he  other's  chains.  There  is  something  almost  sublime 
about  a  great  statesman.  He  has  the  keen  clear  eye  to  see 
a  nation's  wants,  the  wise  judgment  to  devise  the  remedy, 
the  strong  bold  hand  to  apply  it.  Firmness,  vigilance,  jus- 
tice, moderation,  mercy,  dignity  ;  these  are  the  qualities  of 
the  statesman,  and  they  are.  to  sav  the  least  of  them,  quali- 

18 


206  i\EW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

ties  noble  and  godlike,  qualities  which  cannot  fail  to  com- 
mand our  admiration.  They  have  secured  mine,  and  for  th«" 
statesman  I  shall  vote. 

Seventh  Speaker. — Sir,  A  gentleman  who  spoke  with  par- 
ticular boldness  and  confidence  upon  this  very  difficult  sub- 
ject, said,  with  an  air  of  triumph  which  did  not  sit  well 
upon  him  -for  it  was  simply  the  triumph' of  thoughtless- 
ness, not  to  say  of  folly  this  gentleman  said,  that  although 
the  poet  ought  to  refine  the  heart  and  purify  the  soul  of 
man,  he  mostly  or  frequently  fails  to  do  so,  and  therefore 
has  but  a  visionary  and  unproved  claim  upon  our  esteem. 
Are  there  not — said  our  triumphant  thoughtless  friend — are 
there  not  licentious  poets?  skeptical  poets?  misanthropic 
poets?  Why,  doubtless  there  are:  and  might  I  not  ask  in 
return,  Are  there  no  brutal  warriors  ■  are  there  no  stupid 
statesmen  ?  Sir,  the  gentleman  has  taken  false  poets  as  his 
sample  of  true  ones,  and  so  has  fallen  into  deep  error  in  his 
judgment.  We  are  to  decide,  I  apprehend,  between  the 
great  warrior,  the  wise  statesman,  and  the  true  poet:  not  fix 
upon  bad  specimens  of  either. 

Judging  in  this  manner,  sir,  I  presume  to  add  my  feeble 
testimony  to  the  superior  s.rvice  rendered  to  society  by  the 
poet,  as  compared  with  the  two  other  great  men.  He  seems 
to  me  infinitely  higher  than  they  are.  The  soul  is  the  do- 
main he  rules;  and  as  high  as  the  soul  is  above  the  body 
and  the  brain,  so  high  is  the  poet  above  the  warrior  and 
the  statesman.  The  warrior  writes  his  law  in  blood,  the 
statesman  pens  his  law  on  moldering  parchment,  the  poet 
traces  his  upon  the  universal  heart  of  man :  and  while  the 
heart  of  man  exists,  the  poet's  laws  can  never  die^  for  they 
are  laws  of  beauty  and  of  harmony.  The  law  of  the  warrior 
dies  with  him.  Disperse  the  force  he  wields,  he  passes  away 
and  is  forgotten  The  law  of  the  statesman  perishes  with 
the  parchment  on  which  he  writes  it ;  laws  are  superseded 
by  laws,  as  waves  are  superseded  by  waves  But  the  law 
of  the  poet  is  imperishable  ;  it  is  a  law  for  all  time,  and  will 
last  till  time  shall  be  no  longer.  The  works  of  Alexander 
are  no  more — who  can  trace  them  ?  The  works  of  Solon 
are  no  more — who  acts  upon  his  laws?  But  Homer,  like  a 
ivriter  of  yesterday,  stands  fresh  and  young  before  us  and 
shall  so  remain  when  the  very  names  of  Alexander  and  of 
Solon  shall  have  faded  from  the  memory  of  man. 

Eighth  Speaker  — I  am  grateful  sir  to  the  last  speaker  for 
pointing  out  to  us  that  we  are  to  judge  of  the  characters  be- 


SERIOUS  AND  SENTIMENTAL.  207 

fore  us  by  their  most  perfect  specimens ;  and  this  embolden? 
me  to  venture  yet  a  word  in  favor  of  that  character  so  much 
aspersed  by  some — the  warrior.  The  speakers  who  have  so 
blackened  the  military  character  must  surely  have  forgotten 
the  Cceur  de  Lions  the  Cromwells,  the  Blakes  the  Nelsons, 
the  Wellingtons.  But  even  if  they  choose  to  forget  history, 
was  it  so  difficult  to  imagine  a  soldier-hero  that  they  could 
not  even  give  us  an  idea  of  one  — that  they  were  obliged  to 
give  us  false  ideas  of  the  character?  '•  Murderers,"  -'barba- 
rians" "plunderers  !'' — are  warriors  always  this  ■  Have  we 
heard  of  no  virtuous,  merciful,  incorruptible  heroes?  Is 
Hannibal  a  reality,  or  a  dream  ?  Have  any  here  read  of 
Wallace,  or  is  the  name  only  a  vision  of  my  own?  Are 
Cincinnatus,  Leonidas  Washington,  men  who  once  lived  on 
earth,  or  are  they  only  * 

« false  creations 

Proceeding  from  my  heat-oppressed  brain  ?" 

The  soldier,  sir,  has  not  been  fairly  dealt  with.  Let  his  de- 
tractors imagine  an  invader  landing  on  our  peaceful  shores 
with  chains  and  slavery  in  his  million-hands :  let  them  im- 
agine the  wild  terror  and  mad  fear  that  would  arise  in  the 
hearts  of  our  people ;  let  them  imagine  our  commerce  stop- 
ped, our  supplies  cut  off.  our  lives  threatened,  one  universal 
throb  of  dread  in  all  men's  souls.  Let  them  imagine  at  the 
darkest  moment  a  hero  rising  from  the  mass,  instilling 
courage  into  the  heart,  infusing  patriotism  into  the  spirit, 
exciting  strength  into  the  arms  of  the  people.  Let  them 
imagine  him  forming  them  into  enthusiastic  armies,  imbu- 
ing them  with  stern  and  high  resolve  leading  them  with 
dauntless  'courage  into  the  field  of  battle,  and  directing  their 
strength  and  valor  against  the  enslaving  foe  till  he  is  over- 
come, forced  to  fly  in  defeat,  and  curbed  forever  ;  and  if,  after 
imagining  all  this,  they  do  not  think  higher  of  the  soldier- 
hero  than  they  have  done  to-night.  I  will  give  up  my  de- 
fense of  him.  The  great  warrior  sir.  is  worthy  of  all  ad- 
miration. 

Ninth  Speal.er. — Sir.  The  gentleman  who  has  ju=t  address- 
ed us  has  very  eloquently  described  the  value  of  the  h(;ro,  and 
the  service  he  renders  to  his  country;  but  he  has  not  com- 
pared him  with  the  other  characters  before  us,  and,  there 
fore,  has  failed  to  lead  us  to  a  conclusion  on  the  matter. 
Now  1  have  listened  very  attentively  to  the  speeche?  al- 


208  NEW   SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

ready  made,  and  I  must  say  that  T  feel  irresistibly  led  ic- 
wards  the  conclusion,  that  our  vote  should  be  decidedly  in 
favor  of  the  poet ;  for  the  poet  seems  to  me  to  be,  in  the 
best  points  of  their  character,  at  once  the  statesman  and  the 
warrior.  What  constitutes  a  state?  Not  the  bodies,  not 
the  minds,  but  the  free  souls  of  its  citizens.  To  give  laws 
to  the  soul  is  the  poet's  mission,  and  nobly  he  performs  his 
task.  Where  is  the  parchment  that  shows  us  such  a  law  as 
ohakspeare  gives  us  when  he  enjoins  mercy  1 — 

'  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained, 
It  droppeth  like  the  gentle  dew  from  Heaven, 
Upon  the  place  beneath  ; — it  is  twice  bless'd, — 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes ; 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown." 

Show  me  the  parchment  that  contains  a  law  like  that,  and 
I  will  almost  fall  down  and  worship  the  statesman  that  de- 
vised it.    Well  does  an  eloquent  writer  of  the  present  day  say, 

"  Whence  does  the  state  its  inspiration  draw 
Of  mercy  ?     'Tis  the  poet  frames  the  law." 

And  well  does  another  great  writer  say.  that  "  poets  are 
the  unacknowledged  legislators  of  the  world." 

Yes  !  And  so  the  poet  is  the  warrior  too.  What  hero 
ever  led  his  men  to  battle  to  such  strains  as  those  of  Henry 
V.  to  his  soldiers,  from  the  pen  of  Poet  Shakspeare ;  or  as 
those  of  Bruce  to  his  army,  from  the  pen  of  Poet  Burns  ? — 

"  Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled  ! 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  afttimes  Jed, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed ! 

Or  to  glorious  victory ! 

"  Now's  the  day.  and  now's  the  hour, — 
See  the  front  of  battle  lour  ; — 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power — 

Edward!  chains  and  slavery! 

"  Wha  wad  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  wad  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor  I  coward  !  turn  and  flee  I 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  209 

"  Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, — 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa', — 

Caledonians  I  on  wi'  me  ! 

"  By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall — they  shall — be  free  I 

"  Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low, 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe, 
Liberty's  in  every  blow ! 

Forward  !  let  us  do  or  die  !" 

Who  does  not  feel  that  the  heart  which  felt  that  was  the 
true  warrior  heart  after  all  ?  Who  does  not  feel,  as  the  wild 
strain  flashes  through  his  soul,  that  he  too  could  fight  for 
liberty  and  right  whilst  a  pulse  of  life  remained  in  him  ? 

In  another  point  of  view  too — a  far  higher  one — the  poet 
is  the  warrior.  He  is  forever  at  war  with  the  great  foe  of 
man — evil.  No  matter  in  what  shape  the  monster  comes — 
falsehood — tyranny — persecution —  superstition  —  hypocrisy 
— selfishness  ; — he  dauntlessly  attacks  it  in  all.  His  life 
is  one  battle  against  wrong.  To  bring  about  the  reign  of 
good  on  earth,  is  his  unceasing  efl^ort ;  and  with  an  ardor 
compared  with  which  the  enthusiasm  of  the  soldier  sinks 
into  insignificance,  he  fights  under  his  sacred  banner,  en- 
during sorrow  and  defying  death.  Yes  !  the  poet  is  the 
warrior. 

I  wonder  it  has  not  occurred  to  any  other  speaker  that  the 
warrior  and  the  statesman  themselves  admit  the  superiority 
of  the  poet.  Why  does  the  statesman  toil  ?  That  the  poet 
may  celebrate  his  deeds,  and  hand  his  name  down  to  poster- 
ity. Why  does  the  warrior  front  the  cannon's  mouth  ?  That 
the  bard  may  sing  his  victories.  Is  not  this  an  acknowl- 
edgment, plain  and  palpable,  that  the  warrior  and  the  states- 
man both  consider  the  poet  superior  to  themselves  ?  I  con- 
fidently, sir,  give  my  vote  for  the  immortal  poet. 

First  Speaker^  (in  reply.) — Sir,  I  have  no  hesitation  in 
saying  that  the  very  full  and  able  debate  to  which  we  have 
listened,  has  tended  to  convince  me  beyond  doubt  that  of 
the  three  characters  whom  I  submitted  to  your  judgment, 
the  poet  is  by  far  the  noblest,  the  highest,  and  the  worthiest. 
N  18* 


210  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

He  is  above  the  warrior,  inasmuch  as  the  immortal  must  al- 
ways transcend  the  perishable ;  and  he  is  above  the  states- 
man, inasmuch  as  morality  must  ever  be  superior  to  intel- 
lectual wisdom.  The  good  which  the  warrior  does,  tends 
toward  evil^  and  most  generally  products  evil  ;  the  good  that 
the  statesman  does,  is  mutable  and  temporary  ;  but  the  good 
that  the  poet  does  is  everlasting.  Love  of  glory  animates 
the  warrior ;  so  that  his  good  deeds  originate,  at  most,  in 
selfishness.  The  statesman  follows  virtue  for  expediency's 
sake,  and  this  shows  him  to  be  selfish  too.  But  the  poet 
worships  truth  for  its  own  sake  alone,  and  never  till  he 
abandons  self  can  he  be  a  poet  at  all. 

I  fear,  however,  it  may  be  thought  that  all  this  is  specu- 
lative. Let  us.  therefore,  for  a  moment  view  the  question 
with  the  eye  of  fact.  I  will  select  from  English  history  the 
greatest  warrior,  the  greatest  philosopher,  and  the  greatest 
poet  that  I  find  there.  I  will  take  Cromwell  as  hero  Bacon 
as  statesman,  and  Shakspeare  as  poet.  The  same  influences 
tended  to  produce  all  three — nearly  the  same  time  beheld 
them — they  are,  thereibre  fit  objects  to  be  mutually  com- 
pared. 

What,  then,  did  Cromwell  do  for  his  country?  Raised  it, 
doubtless,  to  its  highest  pinnacle  of  political  greatness;  con- 
quered its  enemies,  struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  its  mal- 
contents, acquired  for  it  the  dominion  of  the  seas ;  first,  in- 
deed, gave  England  that  high  supremacy  in  the  world, 
which,  from  that  time  to  this,  she  has  held. 

But  let  us  look  a  little  further.  What  do  we  see  follow- 
ing his  despotic  rule?  That  which  always  results  from 
military  despotism — licentiousness,  irreligion  moral  slavery. 
Charles  the  Second  would  never  have  demorahzed  the  na- 
tion, had  not  Cromwell  first  trodden  it  down.  So  it  is  al- 
ways with  the  conqueror.  I  could  show  you.  were  it  neces- 
sary, many  parallel  instances.  History  abounds  in  them. 
Wherever  the  iron  heel  of  the  warrior  treads,  there  spring 
up  foul  and  pestilential  weeds  which  poison  the  whole  at- 
mosphere around,  and  flower  into  misery  and  crime.  So 
much,  then,  for  our  hero. 

And  now  what  of  our  statesman  ?  I  grant  that  the 
clearest  and  most  sagacious  mind  in  all  philosophy,  is  the 
mind  of  Bacon  ;  and  that  his  philosophy  (rightly  studied 
and  understood)  is  of  a  high,  pure,  and  useful  character. 
But  what  has  he  done?  To  say  nothing  of  the  miserable 
example  he  sets  by  his  own  conduct  (which  shows  how  little 


SERIOUS    AND    SENTIMENTAL.  211 

his  philosophy  is  calculated  to  influence  and  improve  the 
life,  do  we  not  find  that  the  efl^ect  of  his  works  has  been  to 
plunge  Europe  in  skepticism,  if  not  infidelity?  in  doubt,  if 
not  darkness?  To  it  are  clearly  owing  the  disbelief  of 
Hume,  the  atheistic  philosophism  of  the  last  century,  and  the 
mean,  ignoble,  calculating  utilitarianism  of  the  present  day. 
It  fills  the  mind  without  touching  the  heart,  and  makes  a 
man  wise  without  leading-  him  to  be  good. 

But  who  can  estimate  the  vast  benefit  that  Shakspeare 
did  and  is  doing  to  his  country?  Who  can  sufficiently 
point  out  the  effect  of  his  chivalrous  patriotism,  his  pure 
benevolence,  his  high  philosophy,  his  sound  morality,  his 
universal  sympathies,  his  glorious  aspirations  to  nobler  and 
to  better  worlds  than  this?  The  warrior,  as  we  have  seen,- 
links  man  to  man  by  the  wofd  of  command  the  word  of 
authority.  The  statesman,  as  we  have  seen,  links  man  to 
man  by  the  principle  of  mutual  dependence  and  of  self- 
interest.  But  the  poet  links  man  to  man  by  the  holy  tie  of 
sympathy  and  brotherhood — a  tie  which  no  authority,  no 
force  can  break.  Place,  then,  these  three  men  side  by  side — 
Cromwell,  Bacon,  Shakspeare — and  let  your  choice  point 
out  to  you  the  answer  you  should  give  to  the  question  now 
before  us.  You  will  not  hesitate,  for  you  cannot  doubt. 
While  you  will  perceive  that  the  warrior  and  the  statesman 
are  but  the  creatures  of  the  day  that  produces  them  and 
perish  with  that  day,  you  will  also  find  that  the  poet  en- 
graves his  glory  so  deeply  on  the  heart  of  man,  that,  till  the 
heart  of  man  perishes  forever  in  the  grave  of  time,  that 
glory  shall  be  fresh  and  ineffaceable. 


Proteus.    Wilt  thou  be  gone  ?    Sweet  Valentine,  adieu. 
Think  on  thy  Proteus,  when  thou,  haply  see'st 
Some  rare  not(--worthy  object  in  thy  travel. 

Two  Oentlemen  of  Verona, 


COMIC  AND  AMUSING 


I.— FROM  THE  ELECTION.— Baillie. 

BALTIMORE PETER DAVID NAT. 

Baltimore.  Ho,  Peter !  [Enter  Feter.']  What  were 
you  laughing  at  there,  Peter  ? 

Peter.  [  With  a  broad  grin.]  Only,  sir,  at  your  rival. 
Squire  Freeman, — he  !  he  1  he  !  who  was  riding  up  the 
black  lane,  a  little  while  ago,  on  his  new  crop-eared  hunter, 
as  fast  as  he  could  canter,  with  all  the  skiris  of  his  coat  flap- 
ping about  him.  for  all  the  world  like  a  clucking  hen  upon 
a  sow's  back — he  1  he  !  he  ! 

Bait.  [His  face  brightening.']  Thou  art  pleasant,  Pe- 
ter ;  and  what  then  ? 

Fet.  When  just  turning  the  corner,  your  honor,  as  it 
might  be  so,  my  mother's  brown  calf — bless  its  snout !  I 
shall  love  it  for  it,  as  lonof  as  I  live — set  its  face  throusfh  the 
hedge  and  said  -  Mow  I" 

Bait.     [Eagerly.]     And  he  fell:  did  he? 

Fet.  0  yes,  your  honor !  to  be  sure,  yes,  into  a  good 
soft  bed  of  ail  the  rotten  garbage  of  the  village. 

Bait.     And  you  saw  this :  did  you  ? 

Fet.  0  yes,  your  honor !  certainly,  as  plain  as  the  nose 
on  my  face. 

Bait.     Hal  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  and  you  really  saw  it? 

David.  [Aside.]  I  wonder  my  master  can  demean  him- 
self so  as  to  listen  to  that  knave's  tales :  I'm  sure  he  was 
proud  enough  once. 

Bait.     [Still  laughing.]     You  really  saw  it  ? 

Fet.  Ay,  your  honor  I  and  many  more  than  me  saw  it. 
Didn't  they,  Nat? 

Nat.  Oh,  yes,  your  honor,  1  saw  it ;  what  a  plumper  it 
was  I  he  1  he  I  he  ! 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  213 

Bait.  And  there  were  a  number  of  people  to  look  at 
Lim  too? 

Fet.  Oh  !  your  honor  !  all  the  rag-tag  of  the  parish  were 
grinning  at  him.     Wan't  they,  Nat  ? 

Nat.     Yes  certainly,  all  on  'em — he !  he  1  he  ! 

Bait.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha  I  this  is  excellent !  ha!  ha ! 
ha !  He  would  shake  himself  but  ruefully  before  them ! 
\_Still  laughing  violently.'] 

Fet.  Ay.  sir  :  he  shook  the  wet  straws  and  the  withered 
turnip-tops  from  his  back.  It  would  have  done  your  heart 
good  to  have  seen  him. 

Dav.  Nay,  you  know  well  enough,  you  do,  that  there  is 
nothing  but  a  bank  of  dry  sand  in  that  corner.  [Indig- 
nantly to  Feter.'] 

Bait.  [^ImjKitiently  to  David.]  Poo!  silly  fellow  !  it  is 
the  dirtiest  nook  in  the  village. — And  he  rose  and  shook 
himself:  ha !  ha !  ha !  I  did  not  know  that  thou  wert  such 
a  humorous  fellow,  Peter:  here  is  money  for  thee  to  drink 
the  brown  calf's  health,  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Fet.     Ay,  your  honor  I  for  certain  he  shall  have  a  noggen. 

Dav.  [Aside,  scratehing  his  Jiead.]  To  think  now 
master  should  demean  himself  so ! 


IL— FROM  SPEED  THE  PLOUGH.— ^rtonymow*. 

FARMER    ASHFIELD DAME    ASHFIELD. 

Scene. — In  the  fore^ound  a  Farm  House — a  view  of  a  Castle,  at  a 
distance.     Farmer  Ashfield  discovered,  with  his  jug  and  pipe. 

[Enter  Darne  Ashfield^  in  a  riding-dress.^  and  a  basket  un- 
der her  arm.] 

Ashfield.  Well,  Dame,  welcome  whoam.  What  news 
does  thee  bring  from  market  ? 

Dame.  What  news,  husband?  What  I  always  told 
you :  that  Farmer  Grundy's  wheat  brought  five  shillings  a 
quarter  more  than  ours  did. 

Ash.     All  the  better  vor  he. 

Dame.     Ah  !  the  sun  seems  to  shine  on  purpose  for  him. 

Ash.     Come,  come,  Missus,  as  thee  has  not  the  grace  to 


214  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

thank  God  for  prosperous  times,  dant  thee  grumble  when 
they  be  unkindly  a  bit. 

Dame.  And  I  assure  you,  that  Dame  Grundy's  butter 
,vas  quite  the  crack  of  the  market. 

lish.  Be  quiet,  woolye  ?  Always  dmg,  dinging,  Dame 
Grundy  into  my  ears.  What  will  Mrs.  Grundy  say?  What 
will  Mrs.  Grundy  think?  Canst  thee  be  quiet,  let  ur  alone 
and  behave  thyself  pratty  ? 

Dame.  Certainly  I  can — I'll  tell  thee,  Tummas,  what  she 
said  at  church,  last  Sunday. 

Ash.  Canst  thee  tell  what  parson  zaid  ?  Noa. — Then 
I'll  tell  thee. — A'zaid  that  envy  were  as  foul  a  weed  as 
grows,  and  cankers  all  wholesome  plants  that  be  near  it — 
that's  what  a'zaid. 

Dame.     And  do  you  think  I  envy  Mrs.  Grundy,  indeed? 

Ash.  What  dant  thee  letten  her  alone,  then? — T  do  ver- 
ily think,  when  thee  goest  to  t'other  world,  the  vurst  question 
thee'lt  ax,  il  be,  if  Mrs.  Grundy's  there.  Zoa,  be  quiet,  and 
behave  pratty,  do'ye. — Has  thee  brought  whoam  the  Salis- 
bury news? 

Dame.  No,  Tummas  ;  but  I  have  brought  a  rare  wadget 
of  news  with  me.  First  and  foremost,  I  saw  such  a  mort 
of  coaches,  servants,  and  wagons  all  belonging  to  Sir  Abel 
Handy,  and  all  coming  to  the  castle — and  a  handsome 
young  man.  dressed  all  in  lace,  pulled  off  his  hat  to  me, 
and  said — '•  Mrs.  Ashfield  do  me  the  honor  of  presenting 
that  letter  to  your  husband." — So,  there  he  stood  without  his 
hat  — oh,Tumma.s,  had  you  seen  how  Mrs.  Grundy  looked. 

A.sh.  Dom  Mrs.  Grundy — be  quiet,  and  let  I  read, 
woolye?  [Reads.']  •' My  dear  Farmer" — \_TaJdng  off  his 
hat.]  Thank  ye,  zur — zame  to  you,  wi'  all  my  heart  and 
soul. — '•  My  dear  Farmer" — 

Dame.  Farmer — why.  you  are  blind,  Tummas;  it  is — 
"  My  dear  Father" — 'tis  from  our  own  dear  Susan. 

Ash.  Odds  I  dickens  and  d  lisies  I  zoo  it  be^  zure  enow  ! 
"My  dear  Father,  you  will  be  surprised" — zoo  I  be.  he,  he! 
What  pretty  writing,  beant  it?  all  as  straight  as  thof  it  were 
plowed — '  Surprised  to  hear,  that  in  a  few  hours  I  shall 
embrace  you — Nelly,  who  was  formerly  our  servant,  has  for- 
tunately married  Sir  Abel  Handy,  Bart." — 

Dame  Handy  Bart — Pugh  !  Bart,  stands  for  baro- 
night,  mun 

Ash.  Likely,  likely. — Drabbit  it,  only  to  think  of  the 
zwaps  and  changes  of  this  world. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  2 15 

Dame.  Our  Nelly  married  to  a  great  baronet!  I  won- 
der, TummaSj  what  Mrs.  Grundy  will  say? 

Ash.  Now,  woolye  be  quiet,  and  let  I  read  ? — ••  And  she 
has  proposed  bringing  me  to  see  you ;  an  ofTer,  I  hope,  as 
acceptable  to  my  dear  feyther" — 

Dame.     '•  And  mother." 

Ash.  Bless  her,  how  prettily  she  do  write  feyther,  dant 
she? 

Dame.     And  mother. 

Ash.  Ees,  but  fey ther 'first,  though — "Acceptable  to  my 
dear  feyther  and  mother,  as  to  their  affectionate  daughter, 
Susan  Ashfield."     Now  beant  that  a  pratty  letter? 

Dame.     And.  Tummas.  is  not  she  a  pretty  girl  ? 

Ash.  Ees,  and  as  good  as  she  be  pratty.  Drabbit  it,  I 
do  feel  zoo  happy,  and  zoo  warm,  — for  all  the  world  like  the 
zun  in  harvest. 

Dame.     And  what  will  Mrs.  Grundy  say  ?     \_Eoceunt.'\ 


III— FROM  THE  MOUNTAINEERS.— (7o/ma»u 

SADI OCTAVIAN AGNES. 

Sadi.  Here  is  one,  who,  by  the  costliness  of  his  robes, 
must  be  the  lord  of  this  mansion. — 'What  would  you? 

Octavian      I  would  pass — 
Deep  in  yon  cave,  to  hide  me  from  the  sun: 
His  rising  beams  have  tipt  the  trees  with  gold — 
He  gladdens  men — but  I  do  bask  in  sorrow. 
Give  way  ! — 

Sadi.  Mark  you — I  do  respect  sorrow  too  much  to  do  it 
willful  injury.  I  am  a  Moor,  'tis  true — that  is,  I  am  not 
quite  a  Christian — but  I  never  yet  saw  man  bending  under 
misfortune,  that  I  did  not  think  it  pleasure  to  lighten  his 
load.  Strive  to  pass  here,  however,  and  I  must  add  blows 
to  your  burden — and  that  might  haply  break  your  back  ; — 
for  to  say  truth,  I  have  now  a  treasure  in  this  cave,  that, 
while  I  can  hinder  it,  sorrow  shall  never  come  nigh. 

Oct.     Death  !   must  I  burrow  here  with  brutes,  and  find 
My  haunts  broke  in  upon  !  my  cares  disturb'd  ! 
Reptile  !  I'll  dash  thy  body  o'er  the  rocks, 
A.nd  leave  thee  to  the  vultures. 


216  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Sadi.     Friend,  you'll  find  me  too  tough  to  be  served  up 
to  'em.     If  they  must  dine   upon  one  of  us,  we  shall  sec 
which  will  atford  them  a  picking.     {They  struggle^  Agnes 
rushes  between  them.^ 

Agnes.     0,  Sadi ! — for  my  sake, — Gentlemen  ! — hold ! 

Oct      Woman ! 

Sadi.     Ay  ;  and  touch  her  at  your  peril. 

Oct.     Not  for  the  worth  of  worlds.     Thou  lov'st  her  ? — 
He  who  would  cut  the  knot  that  does  entwine. 
And  link  two  loving  hearts  in  unison. 
May  have  man's  form  : — but  at  his  birth,  be  sure  on't, 
Some  fiend  did  thrust  sweet  Nature's  hand  aside. 
Ere  she  had  pour'd  her  balm  within  his  breast, 
To  warm  the  gross  and  earthly  mold  with  pity. 

Sadi.  This  fellow  now  is  like  a  green  melon  ; — with  a 
rough  outside,  and  much  sweetness  under  it. — It  seems  as 
thou  wert  sent,  ragged  Ambassador,  here,  from  a  strange 
nation,  to  treat  with  the  four-footed  citizens  of  this  mountain: 
and  as  we  are  unknown  in  these  parts,  we  will  e'en  throw 
ourselves  on  thy  protection. 

Oct.     Some  paces  hence  there  is  a  goatherd's  cot, 
Begirt  with  brake  and  brush — and  weather-proof. 

Agnes.     Let  us  thither,  Sadi. 

Sadi.     Content. 

Oct.     I'll  lead  you  to't :  for  I  am  high  in  office 
In  Cupid's  cabinet : — I  bear  the  torch 
Before  the  little  god  ;  and  'tis  my  care 
To  shield  from  peril  true  love's  votaries. 

Sadi.  I  knew  he  was  a  great  man, — but  I  never  heard 
mention  before  of  such  a  place  of  dignity.  Along,  good  fei- 
low,  and  we'll  follow  thee 

Oct.     They  shall  not  part  you  ; — for  I  know  what  'tis 
When  worldly  knaves  step  in,  with  silver  beards. 
To  poison  bliss,  and  pluck  young  souls  asunder. 
0  !   wander,  boundless  love,  across  the  wild  ! 
Give  thy  free  passion  scope,  and  range  the  wilderness  ! 
Crib  not  thyself  in  cities. — for  'tis  there 
The  thrifty,  gray  philosopher  inhabits, 
To  check  thy  glowing  impulse  in  his  child. 
Gain  is  the  old  man's  god  ;  he  offers  up 
His  issue  to't ;  and  mercenary  wedlock 
Murders  his  offspring's  peace. — They  murder'd  mine — 
They  tore  it  from  my  bosom  by  the  roots. 
And  with  it,  pluck'd  out  hope  !     Well,  well,  no  matter — 


COMIf!    AND    AMUSIKG.  21^ 

Despair  burns  high  within  me,  and  its  fire 
Serves  me  for  heart,  to  keep  my  clay  in  motion. 
Follow  my  footsteps. 

Agnes.  Alas  !  his  wits  are  turn'd.  Do  not  venture  with 
him,  Sadi ;  he  will  do  us  some  mischief 

Sadi.  Truly  the  tenement  of  his  brain  seems  somew^hat 
out  of  repair ;  yet  if  he  brings  us  to  a  place  of  safety,  Kg- 
nes — I  know  not  whether  we  should  take  this  crazy  gen- 
tleman as  a  guide,  or  trust  to  reason  ; — which,  indeed,  is  but 
a  poor  director  of  the  road,  when  a  man  has  lost  his  way. 
Wilt  thou  lead  us  safe  now  ? 

Oct.     Be  sure  on't. 

Sadi,  Tuck  thyself  under  my  arm,  Agnes.  Now  out, 
cimeter  ! — Bring  us  to  this  same  goatherd's  and  thou  shalt 
have  the  best  acknowledgments  gratitude  can  give  thee : 
but  if  thou  venturest  to  harm  my  Agnes,  I'll  quickly  stir 
the  fire  in  thy  bosom  thou  talk'st  of;  and  this  cimeter  shall 
serve  for  the  poker. 

Oct.     Should  the  gaunt  wolf  cross  lovers  in  their  path, 
I'd  rend  his  rugged  jaws,  that  he  should  bay 
The  moon  no  more  with  howling.     Thread  the  thicket — 
Follow  Love's  messenger. 


IV.— FROM  THE  RIVALS.— ^SAmian. 

SIR    ANTHONY    ABSOLUTE MRS.    MALAPROP LYDIA. 

Scene. — Mrs.  Malaprop's  House. 

[Ente7'  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  Sir  Anthony  Absolute.'] 
Mrs.  Malaprop.     Lydia !  Lydia  ! 

[^Enter  Lydia.'] 
Mrs.  M.     This  Sir  Anthony,  this  is  the  deliberate  sim- 
pleton, who  wants  to  disgrace  her  family  and  lavish  herself 
on  a  fellow  not  worth  a  shilling. 

Lydia      Madam    I  thought  you  once — 
Mrs.  M.     You  thought,  miss !     I  don't  know  any  busi- 
ness you  have  to  think  at  all ;  thought  does  not  become  a 
young  woman.     You  must  promise  to  forget  this  fellow — to 
illiterate  him,  I  sav,  from  your  memory 

ID 


218  NKW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Lyd.  Ah  !  madam  !  our  memories  are  independent  oi 
our  wills.     It  is  not  so  easy  to  forget. 

Mrs.  M.  But  I  say  it  is,  miss ;  there  is  nothing  on  earth 
so  easy  as  to  forget,  if  a  person  chooses  to  set  about  it.  I'm 
sure  I  have  as  much  forgot  your  poor  dear  uncle,  as  if  he 
had  never  existed :  and  I  thought  it  my  duty  so  to  do ;  and 
let  me  tell  you,  Lydia,  these  violent  memories  don't  become 
a  young  vt^oman. 

Lyd.  What  crime,  madam,  have  T  committed,  to  be 
treated  thus? 

Mrs.  M.  Now  don't  attempt  to  externate  yourself  from 
the  matter;  you  know  I  have  proof  controvertible  of  it 
But,  tell  me,  will  you  promise  me  to  do  as  you're  bid? 
Will  you  take  a  husband  of  your  friends'  choosing? 

l\yd.  Madam,  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  that,  had  I  no 
preference  for  any  one  else,  the  choice  you  have  made  would 
be  my  aversion. 

Mrs.  M.  What  business  have  you,  miss,  with  preference 
and  aversion  ?  They  don't  become  a  young  woman  ;  and 
you  ought  to  know,  that,  as  both  always  wear  off  'tis  safest, 
in  ma:rimony,  to  begin  with  a  little  aversion.  I  am  sure  I 
hated  your  poor,  dear  uncle,  before  marriage,  as  if  he'd  been 
a  blackamoor,  and  yet  miss,  you  are  sensible  what  a  wife 
T  made ;  and.  when  it  pleased  heaven  to  release  me  from 
him,  'tis  unknown  what  tears  I  shed !  But,  suppose  we 
were  going  to  give  you  another  choice,  w^ill  you  promise  us 
to  give  up  this  Beverley  ? 

Lyd.  Could  I  belie  my  thoughts  so  far  as  to  give  that 
promise,  my  actions  would  certainly  as  far  belie  my  words. 

Mrs.  M.  'i  ake  yourself  to  your  room.  You  are  fit  com- 
pany for  nothing  but  your  own  ill  humors. 

Lyd.  Willingly,  ma'am  ;  I  cannot  change  for  the  worse. 
{Exit.'] 

Mrs.  M.     There's  a  little  intricate  hussy  for  you  ! 

Sir  Anthony.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  ma'am ;  all 
that  is  the  natural  consequence  of  teaching  girls  how  to 
read.  In  my  way  hither,  Mrs.  Malaprop.  I  observed  your 
niece's  maid  coming  forth  from  a  circulating  library ;  she 
had  a  book  in  each  hand — from  that  moment,  I  guessed 
how  full  of  duty  I  should  see  her  mistress. 

Mrs.  M.     Those  are  vile  places,  indeed  ! 

Sir  A.  Madam,  a  circulating  library  in  a  town,  is  as  an 
evergreen  tree  of  diabolical  knowledge ! — It  blossoms  through 
the  year !     And,  depend  upon  it,  Mrs   Malaprop,  that  they 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  219 

who  are  so  fond  of  handling  the  leaves,  will  long  for  the 
fruit  at  last 

Mrs.  M.  Fie,  fie.  Sir  Anthony ;  you  surely  speak  lacon- 
ically. 

Sir  A.  Why.  Mrs.  Malaprop,  in  moderation,  now,  what 
would  you  have  a  woman  know? 

Mrs.  M.  Observe  me,  Sir  Anthony — I  would  by  no 
means  wish  a  daughter  of  mine  to  be  a  progeny  of  learning; 
T  don't  think  so  much  learning  becomes  a  young  woman; 
for  instance  I  would  never  let  her  meddle  with  Greek,  or  He- 
brew, or  Algebra,  or  Simony,  or  Fluxions,  Paradoxes  or  such 
inflammatory  branches  of  learning,  nor  will  it  be  necessary 
for  her  to  handle  any  of  your  mathematical  astronomical, 
diabolical  instruments:  but  Sir  Anthony,  I  would  send  her 
at  nine  years  oM  to  a  boarding  school,  in  order  to  learn  a 
little  ingenuity  and  artifice.  Then  sir,  she  should  have  a 
supercilious  knowledge  in  accounts ;  and  as  she  grew  up  I 
would  have  her  instructed  in  geometry,  that  she  might  know 
something  of  the  contagious  countries  ;  above  all,  she  should 
be  taught  orthodoxy.  This,  Sir  Anthony,  is  what  I  would 
have  a  woman  know :  and  I  don't  think  there  is  a  supersti- 
tious article  in  it. 

Sir  A.  Well,  well,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  will  dispute  the 
point  no  further  with  you,  though  I  must  confess,  that  you 
are  a  truly  moderate  and  polite  arguer,  for  almost  every  third 
word  you  say,  is  on  my  side  of  the  question.  But  to  the 
more  important  point  in  the  debate — you  say  you  have  no 
objection  to  my  proposal  ? 

Mrs.  M.  None,  I  assure  you.  I  am  under  no  positive 
engagement  with  Mr.  Acres  :  and  as  Lydia  is  so  obstinate 
against  him   perhaps  your  son  may  have  better  success. 

Sir  A.  Well.  Madam,  I  will  write  for  the  boy  directly. 
He  knows  not  a  syllable  of  this  yet,  though  I  have  for  some 
time  had  the  proposal  in  my  head.  He  is  at  present  with 
his  regiment. 

Mrs.  M.  We  have  never  seen  your  son,  Sir  Anthony  , 
I  hope  no  objection  on  his  side. 

Sir  A.  Objection  ! — Let  him  object  if  he  dare  ! — No  no, 
Mrs.  Malaprop  Jack  knows  that  the  least  demur  puts  me 
in  a  frenzy  directly.  My  process  was  always  very  simple 
—  in  his  younger  days  'twas  -Jack  do  this,'"  — if  he  de- 
murred, I  knocked  him  down  :  and,  if  he  grumbled  at  that, 
I  always  sent  him  out  of  the  room. 

Ml  s.  M.      Ay,  and  the  properest  way.     Nothing  is  so 


220  ^  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

conciliating  to  young  people  as  severity  Well,  Sir  Anthony, 
T.  shall  give  Mr.  Acres  his  discharge,  and  prepare  Lydia  to 
receive  your  son's  invocations,  and  I  hope  you  will  represent 
her  to  the  captain  as  an  object  not  altog:ether  illegible. 

Sir  A.  Madam,  I  will  handle  the  subject  prudently  I 
must  leave  you;  and.  let  me  beg  you,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  lo  en- 
force this  matter  roundly  to  the  girl  — take  my  advice,  keep 
a  tight  hand — if  she  rejects  this  proposal,  clap  her  under 
lock  and  key:  and,  if  you  were  just  to  let  the  servants  for- 
get to  bring  her  dinner  for  three  or  four  days,  you  can't  con- 
ceive how  she'd  come  about.  [Exeunt.] 


v.— FROM  WILLIAM  TELL.—Knowles. 

WALDMAN MICHAEL 

Waldman.     Don't  tell  me,  Michael !  thou  dost  lead  a  life 
As  bootless  as  a  jester's — worse  than  his, 
For  he  has  high  retaining.     Every  one 
Calls  thee  his  fool — the  gallant  and  the  boy, 
The  gentle-born  and  base  !     Thy  graceless  name 
Is  ever  tagged  to  feasts,  and  shows   and  games, 
And  saucy  brawls  which  men  as  young  as  thou. 
Discourse  of  with  grave  looks      What  comes  of  this? 
Will't  make  thee  rich?     Will't  give  thee  place  in  life? 
Will't  buy  thee  honor  friendship,  or  esteem  ? 
Will't  get  thee  reverence  'gainst  gray  hairs? 

Michael.     Good  father  ! — 

Wal.     The  current  of  thy  life  doth  counter  run 
To  that  of  other  men's.     Thy  spirits,  which 
Were  reason  in  thee,  when  thou  wast  a  child, 
As  tameless  still  now  thou'rt  become  a  man, 
Are  folly!     Thriftless  life,  that  may  be  called 
More  rational  when  in  the  nurse's  lap. 
Than  when  in  manhood^s  chair!     Survey  those  towers, 
And  act  the  revel  o'er  of  yesternight; 
Think  of  the  tyrants  whom  they  lodge,  and  then 
Link  hands  with  fools  and  braggarts  o'er  their  wine; 
Fancy  the  sounds  their  dungeons  hear,  and  tell 
Of  such  and  such  a  jest  of  thine,  that  made 
Thy  wanton  comrades  roar. 

Mich      Dear  father ! 


rOMIC    AND    AMUSING.  221 

Wal.     Pshaw  ! 
Thou  canst  not  try  to  speak  with  gravity, 
But  one  perceives  thou  wagg'st  an  idle  tongue ; 
Thou  canst  not  try  to  look  demure,  but.  spite 
Of  all  thou  dost  thou  showest  a  laugher's  cheek ; 
Thou  canst  not  e'en  essay  to  walk  sedate, 
But  in  thy  very  gait  one  sees  the  jest, 
That's  ready  to  break  out,  in  spite  of  all 
Thy  seeming. 

Mich.     I'm  a  melancholy  man 
That  can't  do  that  which  with  good-will  I  would ! 
I  pray  thee,  father,  tell  me  what  will  change  me. 

Wal.     Hire  thyself  to  a  sexton,  and  dig  graves: 
Never  keep  company,  but  at  funerals  : 
Beg  leave  to  take  thy  bed  into  the  church, 
And  sleep  there  ;   fast,  until  thy  abstinence 
Upbraid  the  anchorite  with  gluttony  ; 
And  when  thou  takest  refection,  feast  on  naught 
But  water  and  stale  bread  ;  ne'er  speak,  except 
At  prayers  and  grace  ;  and  as  to  music,  be 
Content  with  ringing  of  the  passing  bell, 
When  souls  do  o-o  to  their  account. 

Mich.     But  if 
The  bells,  that  ring  as  readily  for  joy 
As  grief,  should  chance  to  ring  a  merry  peal, 
And  they  should  drop  the  corse — 

Wal.     Then  take  the  rope, 
And  hang  thyself.     [C^'osses.^     I  know  no  other  way 
To  change  thee. 

Mich.     Nay.  I'll  do  some  great  feat,  yet. 

Wal.     You'll  do  some  great  feat!     Take  me   Gesler's 
castle ! 

Mich.     Humph  !  that  would  be  a  feat,  indeed  !    I'll  do  it ! 

Wal.     You'll  do  it !  You'll  get  married,  and  have  children 
And  be  a  sober  citizen,  before 

You  pare  your  bread  o'  the  crust.     You'll  do  it !     You'll 
Do  nothing  !     Live  until  you  are  a  hundred 
When  death  shall  catch  you,  'twill  be  laughing.     Do  it  ! 
Look  grave,  talk  wise,  live  sober  thou  wilt  do 
A  harder  thing,  but  that  thou  It  never  do.   [Exit  Waldman.] 

Mich.     [Solus.']     Hard  sentence    that!     Dame  Nature! 
gentle  mother  ! 
If  thou  hast  made  me  of  too  rich  a  mold 
To  bring  the  common  seed  of  life  to  fruit, 
19* 


222  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Is  it  a  iault  ?     Kind  Nature  !  I  should  lie, 

To  say  it  was.     Who  would  not  have  an  eye 

To  see  the  sun,  where  others  see  a  cloud  1 

A  skin  so  tempered,  as  to  feel  the  rain, 

Gave  other  men  the  ague,  him  refreshed ; 

A  frame  so  vernal,  as,  in  spite  of  snow 

To  think  it's  genial  summer  all  year  round  ; 

And  bask  himself  in  bleak  December's  scowl, 

While  others  sit  and  shiver  o'er  a  hearth  1 

I  do  not  know  the  fool  would  not  be  such 

A  man  !     Shall  I  upbraid  my  heart,  because 

It  hath  been  so  intent  to  keep  me  in 

An  ample  revenue  of  precious  mirth, 

It  hath  forgot  to  hoard  the  duller  coin 

The  world  do  trade  on  ?     No,  not  I,  no  more 

Than  I  would  empt  my  coffers  of  their  gold. 

Were  they  so  furnished,  to  make  room  for  brass, 

Or  disenthrone  the  diamond  of  my  ring — 

Supposed  the  gemmed  toy  my  finger  wore — 

To  seat  a  sparkless  pebble  in  its  place !  [Exit.'] 


VL— CLOWNISH  IGNORANCE. 

HUMPHRY FAINLOVE POUNCE.  ^ 

Humphry.  How  prettily  this  park  is  stock'd  with  sc» 
diers,  and  deer,  and  ducks,  and  ladies. — Ha !  Where  arj 
the  old  fellows  gone  ?  Where  can  they  be,  trow  ( — I'll  ask 
these  people. — A — a— a  -you  pretty  young  gentleman  [to 
Fainlove\  did  you  see  Vather  ? 

Fain.     Your  father,  sir  ? 

Humph.  Ey,  my  Vather.  a  weezle-fyaced,  cross  old  gentle- 
man, with  spindle-shanks  ? 

Fain.     No,  sir. 

Humph.     A  crab  stick  in  his  hand. 

iFounce.  We  have  met  nobody  with  these  marks.  But, 
sure.  I  have  seen  you  before. — Are  not  you  Mr.  Humphry 
Gubbin,  son  and  heir  to  Sir  Harry  Gubbiu  ? 

Humph.  Ey,  ey.  an  that  were  all.  I'se  his  son,  but  how 
long  I  shall  be  his  heir,  I  can't  tell  :  for  a  talk's  o'  disinher- 
iting oii  ma  every  day. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  223 

Founce.  Dear  sir,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  T  have  had  a 
desire  to  be  acauainted  with  you  ever  since  I  saw  you  clench 
your  fist  at  your  father,  when  his  back  was  turned  toward 
you.     I  love  a  young  man  of  spirit. 

Humijh,  Why,  sir,  would  it  not  vex  a  man  to  the  very 
heart  and  blood  on  him,  to  have  a  crabbed  old  fellow  snub- 
bing a  body  every  minute  before  company  ? 

Founce.     Why,  Mr.  Humphry,  he  uses  you  like  a  boy. 

Humph.  Like  a  boy,  quotha  I  He  uses  me  like  a  dog 
A  lays  me  on  now  and  then,  e'en  as  if  a  were  a  breaking  a 
hound  to  the  game, — You  can't  think  what  a  tantrum  a 
was  in  this  morning,  because  I  boggled  a  little  at  marrying 
my  own  born  cousin. 

Founce.  A  man  can't  be  too  scrupulous,  Mr.  Humphry; 
a  man  can't  be  too  scrupulous. 

Humph  Why,  sir,  I  could  as  soon  love  my  own  flesh 
and  blood.  We  should  squabble  like  brother  and  sister, 
not  like  man  and  wife.  Do  you  think  we  should  not. 
Mr. ?     Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  crave  your  names  ? 

Founce.  Sir,  I  am  the  very  person  that  has  been  em- 
ployed to  draw  up  the  articles  of  marriage  between  you  and 
your  cousin. 

Humph.  Ho,  ho !  say  you  so  ?  Then,  mayhap  you  can 
tell  one  some  things  one  wants  to  know.- -A — a — pray,  sir, 
what  estate  am  I  heir  to? 

Founce.  To  fifteen  hundred  pounds  a  year,  entailed  es- 
tate 

Humph.  'Sniggers!  I'se  glad  on't  with  all  my  heart. 
And — a — a  — can  you  satisfy  ma  in  another  question.- -Pray, 
how  old  be  I  ? 

Founce.     Three-and-twenty  last  March. 

Humph.  Plague  on  it !  As  sure  as  you  are  there,  they 
have  kept  ma  back.  I  have  been  told  by  goody  Clack,  or 
goody  Tipple,  I  don't  know  which,  that  I  was  born  the  very 
year  the  stone  pig-stye  was  built ;  and  everybody  knows 
the  pig-stye  in  the  back  close  is  three  and  twenty  years  old. 
ril  be  ducked  in  a  horse-pond,  if  here  has  not  been  tricks 
play'd  ma.     But,  pray,  sir  mayn't  I  crave  your  name? 

Founce.     My  name,  sir,  is  Pounce;  at  your  service 

Humph.     Pounce  with  a  P  ? — 

Founce.     Yes,  sir,  and  Samuel  with  an  S. 

Humph.  Why,  then  Mr  Samuel  Pounce.  \chucJding, 
and  wriggling,  and  rubbing  his  hands  earnestly^  do  you 
know  any  clever  gentlewoman  of  your  acquaintance  that 


224  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

you  think  I  could  like  ?  For  I'll  be  hang-'d  like  a  dog.  an  I 
han't  taken  a  right  down  aversion  to  my  cousin  ever  since 
Vather  proposed  her  to  ma.  And  since  eveiybody  knows 
I  came  up  to  be  married,  I  shou'd  not  care  to  go  down 
again  with  a  flea  in  my  ear,  and  look  balk'd,  d'ye  see. 

Pounce.  \ After  a  pause.]  Why.  sir.  1  have  a  thought 
just  come  into  my  head.  And  if  you  will  walk  along  with 
this  gentleman  and  me,  where  we  are  going,  I'll  communi- 
cate it. 

Humph.     With  all  my  heart,  good  Mr.  Samuel  Pounce. 


VII.— FROM  BLACK-EYED  SUSAN.— ^wowymowx 

ADMIRAL WILLIAM WITNESSES 

Admiral.  Prisoner,  as  your  ship  is  ordered  tor  instant 
service,  and  it  has  been  thought  expedient  that  your  ship- 
mates should  be  witnesses  of  whatever  punishment  the  court 
may  award  you,  if  found  guilty  of  the  crime  wherewith  you 
are  charged,  it  will  be  sufficient  to  receive  the  depositions  of 
the  witnesses,  without  calling  for  the  attendance  of  Captain 
Crosstree.  whom  it  is  yet  impossible  to  remove  from  shore. 
One  of  the  witnesses.  I  am  sorry  to  say.  is  your  wife , 
however,  out  of  mercy  to  your  peculiar  situation,  we  have 
not  summoned  her  to  attend. 

Williain.  Bless  you,  your  honor,  bless  you.  My  wife, 
Susan,  standing  here  before  me,  speaking  words  that  would 
send  me  to  the  fore-yard — it  had  been  too  much  for  an  old 
sailor.  I  thank  your  honors  !  If  I  must  work  for  the  dead 
reckoning,  I  wouldn't  have  it  in  sight  of  my  wife. 

Adm..  Prisoner,  you  are  charged  with  an  attempt  to  slay 
Robert  Crosstree  captain  in  his  majesty's  navy,  and  your 
superior  officer.     Answer, — are  you  guilty  or  not  guilty? 

Will.  I  want  your  honor  to  steer  well  between  the 
questions.  If  it  be  asked  whether  I  wished  to  kill  the  cap- 
tain ?  I  could,  if  I'd  a  mind  to  brag  show  that  I  loved 
him — loved  him  next  to  my  own  Susan  ;  all's  one  for  that, 
I  am  not  guilty  of  an  attempt  to  kill  the  captain,  but  if  it 
be  guilt  to  strike  in  defense  of  a  sailor's  own  sheet-anchor, 
his  wife,  why.  I  say,  guilty,  your  honor;  I  say  it,  and  think 
I've  no  cause  to  hang  out  the  red  at  my  fore. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSINO.  225 

Adm.  You  plead  guilty.  Let  me,  as  one  of  yuur  judges, 
advise  you  to  reconsider  the  plea  At  least,  take  the  chanceri 
which  a  hearing  of  your  case  may  allow. 

Will  I  leave  that  chance  to  your  own  hearts  your 
honors :  if  they  have  not  a  good  word  for  poor  Will,  why.  it 
is  below  the  honesty  of  a  sailor,  to  go  upon  the  half  tack  of 
a  lawyer. 

Adm,.     You  w-ill  not  retract  the  plea  ? 

Will.  I'm  fixed  ;  anchored  to  it,  fore  and  aft,  with  chain- 
cable. 

Adm.  Gentlemen  nothing  more  remains  for  us  than  to 
consider  the  justice  of  our  verdict.  Although  the  case  of 
the  unfortunate  man  admits  of  many  palliatives  still,  for 
the  upholding  of  a  necessary  disciphne,  any  commiseration 
would  afiford  a  dangerous  precedent,  and.  I  fear,  cannot  be 
indulged.  Gentlemen,  are  you  all  determined  on  your  ver- 
dict?    Guilty,  or  not  guilty  ? 

All     Guilty. 

Adm.  It  remains,  then,  for  me  to  pass  the  sentence  of 
the  law.  Does  no  one  of  your  shipmates  attend,  to  speak  to 
your  character?     Have  you  no  one? 

Will.  No  one,  your  honor  -I  didn't  think  to  ask  them ; 
but  let  the  word  be  passed,  and  may  I  never  go  aloft,  if, 
from  the  boatswain  to  the  black  cook,  there's  one  that  can 
spin  a  yarn  to  condemn  me. 

Adm.x    Pass  the  word  forward,  for  witnesses. 
\Bnter  Witnesses. '\ 

Adm.     What  are  you  ? 

Witness.     Boatswain,  your  honor. 

Adm.     What  know  you  of  the  prisoner  ? 

Wit.  Know  your  honor?  the  trimmest  sailor  as  ever 
handled  rope ;  the  first  on  his  watch,  the  last  to  leave  the 
deck ;  one  as  never  belonged  to  the  after  guard — he  has  the 
cleanest  top  and  the  whitest  hammock  ;  from  reefing  a  main- 
top-sail, to  stowing  a  netting,  give  me  taTit  Bill  afore  any 
able  seaman  in  his  majesty's  fleet. 

Adm.     But  what  know  you  of  his  moral  character? 

Wit.  His  moral  character,  your  honor  ?  Why,  he  plays 
upon  the  fiddle  like  an  angel. 

Adm.     Are  there  any  other  witnesses? 

\Afiother  Witness  comes  forward.'] 

Adm      What  do  you  know  of  the  prisoner  ? 

Wit.     Nothing  but  good,  your  honor. 

Ad?n      He  was  never  known  to  disobey  a  command  ? 
0 


226  NEW    SCHOOL   DIAL0<3UES. 

Wit.  Never  but  once,  your  honor,  and  that  was  when 
he  gave  me  half  his  grog,  when  I  was  upon  the  black  list. 

Adm.     What  else  do  you  know  ? 

Wit.  Why,  this  I  know,  your  honor,  if  William  goes 
aloft,  there's  sartin  promotion  for  him 

Adm.  Have  you  nothing  else  to  show  ?  Did  he  never 
do  any  great,  benevolent  action  ? 

Wit.  Yes,  he  twice  saved  the  captahi's  life,  and  once 
ducked  a  Jew  slopseller, 

Adm.     Are  there  any  more  witnesses  ? 

Will.  Your  honors,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  irons,  or  seized 
to  the  grating,  to  stand  here  and  listen,  like  the  landlord's 
daughter,  of  the  Nelson,  to  nothing  but  yarns  about  sarvice 
and  character.  My  actions,  your  honors,  are  kept  in  the 
log-book  aloft.  If,  when  that's  overhauled.  I'm  not  found  a 
trim  seaman,  why,  it's  only  throwing  salt  to  fishes,  to  patter 
here. 

Adm.  Gentlemen,  are  your  opinions  still  unchanged? — 
Prisoner,  what  have  you  to  say  in  arrest  of  judgment  i  Now 
is  your  time  to  speak. 

Will.  In  a  moment,  your  honors. —  Hang  it,  my  top- 
lights  are  rather  misty. — Your  honors.  I  had  been  three 
years  at  sea^  and  never  looked  upon,  or  heard  from  my  wife 
— as  sweet  a  little  craft  as  was  ever  lanched — I  had  come 
ashore,  and  I  was  as  lively  as  apetterel  in  a  storm — I  found 
Susan,  that's  my  wife,  your  honors,  all  her  gilt  taken  by  the 
land-sharks ;  but  yet  all  taut,  with  a  face  as  red  and  as  rosy 
as  the  king's  head  on  the  side  of  a  fire-bucket.  Well,  your 
honors,  when  we  were  as  merry  as  a  ship's  crew  on  a  pay- 
day, there  comes  an  order  to  go  aboard.  I  left  Susan,  and 
went  with  the  rest  of  the  liberty-men,  to  ax  leave  of  the  first 
lieutenant.  I  hadn't  been  gone  the  turning  of  an  hour-glass, 
when  I  heard  Susan  giving  signals  of  distress  ;  I  out  with 
my  cutlass,  made  all  Fail,  and  came  up  to  my  craft.  I  found 
her  battling  with*  a  pirate — I  never  looked  at  his  figure-head  ; 
never  stopped — would  any  of  your  honors? — long  live  you 
and  your  wives  say  I — would  any  of  your  honors  have  rowed 
alongside,  as  if  you'd  been  going  aboard  a  royal  yacht  ? 
Vo,  you  wouldn't  for  the  gilt  swabs  on  your  shoulders  can't 
alter  the  heart  that  swells  beneath — you  would  have  done 
'the  same  as  I  did — and  what  did  I? — Why,  I  cut  him 
down,  like  a  piece  of  old  junk — had  he  been  the  first  lord 
of  the  Admiralty,  I  had  done  it. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  227 


VIIL— THE  WILl,.— Anonymous. 

SWIPES,  A  BREWER CURRIE,  A  SADDLER FRANK  MILLING'IOY 

AND    'squire    DRAWL. 

Swipes.  A  sober  occasion,  this,  brother  Currie.  Who 
would  have  thought  the  old  lady  was  so  near  her  end  ? 

Currie.  Ah  !  we  must  all  die,  brother  Swipes ;  and« 
those  who  live  longest,  outlive  the  most. 

Swipes.  True,  true  ;  but  since  we  must  die  and  leave 
our  earthly  possessions,  it  is  well  that  the  law  takes  such 
good  care  of  us.  Had  the  old  lady  her  senses  when  she 
departed  ? 

Cur.  Perfectly,  perfectly.  'Squire  Drawl  told  me  she 
read  every  word  of  the  will  aloud,  and  never  signed  her 
name  better. 

Swipes.  Had  you  any  hint  from  the  'Squire,  what  dispo- 
sition she  made  of  her  property  ? 

Cur.  Not  a  whisper ;  the  'Squire  is  as  close  as  an  un- 
der-ground tomb  ;  but  one  of  the  witnesses  hinted  to  me, 
that  she  had  cut  off  her  graceless  nephew,  Frank,  without  a 
shilling. 

Swipes.  Has  she,  good  soul,  has  she  ?  You  know  I 
come  in  then,  in  right  of  my  wife  'i 

Cur.  And  I  in  my  own  right ;  and  this  is  no  doubt  the 
reason  why  we  have  been  called  to  hear  the  reading  of  the 
will.  'Squire  Drawl  knows  how  things  should  be  done, 
though  he  is  as  air-tight  as  one  of  your  beer-barrels.  But 
here  comes  the  young  reprobate.  He  must  be  present  as  a 
matter  of  course,  you  know.  [Enter  Frank  Millington.'] 
Your  servant,  young  gentleman.  So  your  benefactress  has 
left  you  at  last  ? 

Swipes.  It  is  a  painful  thing  to  part  with  old  and  good 
friends,  Mr.  Millington. 

Frank.  It  is  so,  sir ;  but  I  could  bear  her  loss  better, 
had  I  not  so  often  been  ungrateful  for  her  kindness.  She 
was  my  only  friend,  and  I  knew  not  her  value. 

Cur.  It  is  too  late  to  repent,  Master  Millington.  You 
will  now  have  a  chance  to  earn  your  own  bread. 

Swipes.  Ay,  ay,  by  the  sweat  of  your  brow,  as  better 
people  are  obliged  to.  You  would  make  a  fine  brewer'.s 
boy  if  you  were  not  too  old. 


228  NEW    SCHOOL    DlALOGWES. 

Cur.     Ay,  or  a  saddler's  lackey,  if  held  with  a  tight  rein 

Frank.  Gentlemen,  your  remarks  imply  that  my  aunt 
has  treated  me  as  I  deserved.  I  am  above  your  insults,  and 
only  hope  you  W\\\  bear  your  fortune  as  modestly  as  I  shall 
mine  submissively.  I  shall  retire.  [  Going,  he  meets  ^Squire 
Drawl.'] 

^Squire.  Stop,  stop,  young  man.  We  must  have  your 
presence.  Good  morning,  gentlemen,  you  are  early  on  tha 
ground. 

Cur.     I  hope  the  'Squire  is  well  to-day. 

^Squire      Pretty  comfortable,  for  an  invalid. 

Swipes.  I  trust  the  damp  air  has  not  affected  your  lungs 
again. 

^Squire.  No,  I  believe  not.  But  since  the  heirs-at-law 
are  all  convened,  I  shall  now  proceed  to  open  the  last  will 
and  testament  of  your  deceased  relative,  according  to  law. 

SwijJes.  [Whi/e  the  ^Squire  is  breaking  the  seal]  It  is 
a  trying  thing,  to  leave  all  one's  possessions,  'Squire,  in  this 
manner. 

Cter.  It  really  makes  me  feel  melancholy,  when  I  look 
round  and  see  everything  but  the  venerable  owner  of  these 
goods.     Well  did  the  preacher  say,  •'  All  is  vanity." 

^Squire.  Please  to  be  seated,  gentlemen.  [He puts  on 
his  spcctacks,  and  begins  to  read  slowly^  Imprimis  ;  whereas 
my  nephew,  Francis  Millington.  by  his  disobedience  and 
ungrateful  conduct,  has  shown  himself  unworthy  of  my 
bounty,  and  incapable  of  managing  my  last  estate,  I  do 
hereby  give  and  bequeath  all  my  houses,  farms,  stocks, 
bonds,  moneys,  and  property,  both  personal  and  real,  to  my 
dear  cousins  Samuel  Swipes,  of  Malt  street,  brewer,  and 
Christopher  Currie,  of  Fly-court,  saddler!  [The  \Squire 
takes  ojf  his  spectacles.,  to  wipe  the7n.^ 

Swipes.  Generous  creature  !  kind  soul !  I  always  loved 
her. 

Cur.  She  was  good  she  was  kind  ; — and  brother  Swipes, 
when  we  divide,  I  think  I'll  take  the  mansion-house. 

Swipes.  Not  so  fast,  if  you  please  Mr.  Currie.  My  wife 
has  long  had  her  eye  on  that  and  must  have  it. 

Cur.  There  will  be  two  words  to  that  bargain,  Mr. 
Swipes.  And  besides,  I  ought  to  have  the  first  choice. 
Did  I  not  lend  her  a  new  chaise,  every  time  she  wished  to 
ride?     And  who  knows  what  influence — 

Swipes.     Am  I  not  named  first  in  her  will  ?     And  did  I 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING,  220 

not  furnish  her  with  my  best  small  beer,  for  more  than  six 
months  ?  and  who  knows — 

Frank.     Gentlemen,  I  must  leave  you.     \Going.'\ 

^Squire  [^Putting  on  his  spectacles  very  deliberate/y.~\ 
Pray,  gentlemen  keep  your  seats  I  have  not  done  yet.  Let 
me  see ;  where  was  I  ?  Ay,  '•  All  my  property,  both  per- 
sonal and  real,  to  my  dear  cousins.  Samuel  Swipes,  of  Malt- 
street,  brewer" — 

Sioi2:)es.     Yes ! 

^Squire.  ''  And  Christopher  Currie,  of  Fly-court,  sad> 
dier'— 

Cur.     Yes ! 

\Squire.  "  To  have  and  to  hold,  in  trusty  for  the  sole  and 
exclusive  benefit  of  my  nephew,  Francis  Millington,  until  he 
shall  have  attained  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  by  which 
time,  I  hope  he  will  have  so  far  reformed  his  evil  habits, 
that  he  may  safely  be  intrusted  with  the  large  fortune  I 
hereby  bequeath  to  him." 

Swipes.  What's  all  this  ?  You  don't  mean  that  we  are 
all  humbugged  ?  In  trust !  How  does  that  appear  ?  Where 
is  it  ? 

^Squire.  There — in  two  words  of  as  good  old  English  as 
I  ever  penned. 

Cur.  Pretty  well  too,  Mr.  'Squire,  if  we  must  be  sent 
for,  to  be  made  a  laughing  stock  of.  She  shall  pay  for  every 
ride  she  has  had  out  of  my  chaise.  I  promise  you. 

Swipes.  And  for  every  drop  of  my  beer.  Fine  times  !  if 
two  sober,  hard-working  citizens  are  to  be  brought  here,  to 
be  made  the  sport  of  a  graceless  profligate.  But  we  will 
manage  his  property  for  him,  Mr.  Currie  ;  we  will  make 
him  feel  that  trustees  are  not  to  be  trifled  with 

Cur.     That  we  will. 

^Squire.  Not  so  fast,  gentlemen  ;  for  the  instrument  is 
dated  three  years  ago  ;  and  the  young  gentleman  must  be 
already  of  age,  and  able  to  take  care  of  himself.  Is  it  not 
so.  Francis  ? 

Frank.     It  is,  your  worship. 

^Squire.  Then,  gentlemen,  having  attended  to  the  break- 
ing of  the  seal,  according  to  law,  you  are  released  from  any 
further  trouble  about  the  business.. 


20 


'230  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

IX.— FROM  THE  BIY ALS.— Sheridan. 

ACRES CAPTAIN    ABSOLUTE DAVID SEIIVANT. 

Scene. — Acres'  Lodgings. 

[Acres,  a  perfect  coward,  has  been  induced  to  send  a  chal- 
lenge to  Beverly,  the  assumed  name,  unknown  to  Acres,  of 
hisfrieful,  Captain  Absolute.     Acres  and  David  discovered.] 

David.  Then,  by  the  mass,  sir,  I  would  do  no  such 
thing  !  ne'er  a  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger  in  the  kingdom  should 
make  me  fight,  when  I  wasn't  so  minded.  Oons !  what 
will  the  old  lady  say,  when  she  hears  o't? 

Acres.  But  my  honor,  David,  my  honor  !  I  must  be 
very  careful  of  my  honor. 

Dav.  Ay,  by  the  mass,  and  I  would  be  very  careful  of 
it,  and  I  think  in  return,  my  honor  could  not  do  less  than  to 
be  very  careful  of  me. 

Acres.  Odds  blades !  David,  no  gentleman  will  ever  risk- 
the  loss  of  his  honor  ! 

Dav.  I  say,  then,  it  would  be  but  civil  in  honor  never  to 
risk  the  loss  of  a  gentleman.  Look  ye,  master,  this  honor 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  marvelous  false  friend  ;  ay,  truly,  a  very 
courtier-like  servant.  Put  the  case :  I  was  the  gentleman, 
(which,  thank  heaven,  no  one  can  say  of  me;)  well — my 
honor  makes  me  quarrel  with  another  gentleman  of  my  ac- 
quaintance. So,  we  fight.  (Pleasant  enough  that.)  Boh  ! 
I  kill  him — (the  more's  my  luck.)  Now.  pray,  who  gets  the 
profit  of  it  ?  Why,  my  honor.  But  put  the  case,  that  he 
kills  me  !  By  the  mass!  I  go  to  the  worms,  and  my  honor 
whips  over  to  my  enemy. 

Acres.  No,  David  ;  in  that  case,  odds  crowns  and  laurels  I 
your  honor  follows  you  to  the  grave  ! 

Dav.  Nqw,  that's  just  the  place  where  I  could  make  a 
shift  to  do  without  it. 

Acres.  Poh.  poh!  David,  you  are  a  coward!  It  doesn't 
become  my  valor  to  listen  to  you.  What,  shall  I  disgrace 
my  ancestors?  Think  of  that,  David — think  what  it  would 
be  to  disgrace  my  ancestors  I 

Dav.  Under  favor,  the  surest  way  of  not  disgracing  them, 
is  to  keep  as  long  as  you  can  out  of  their  company.  Look 
ye,  now,  master ;  to  go  to  them  in  such  haste — with  an 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  23 J 

ounce  of  lead  in  your  brains — I  should  think  it  might  as 
well  be  let  alone.  Our  ancestors  are  very  good  kind  of 
folks ;  but  they  are  the  last  people  1  should  choose  to  have. 
a  visiting  acquaintance  with. 

Ac?'es.  But,  David,  now,  you  don't  think  there  is  such 
very — very — great  danger,  hey  ?  Odds  life  !  people  often 
fight  without  any  mischief  done  ! 

Dav.  By  the  mass,  I  think  'tis  ten  to  one  against  you  1 
Oons  !  here  to  meet  some  lion-headed  fellow,  I  warrant, 
with  his  villainous  double-barreled  swords  and  cut  and-thrust 
pistols  !  Lord  bless  us  !  it  makes  me  tremble  to  think  on't 
— those  be  such  desperate,  bloody  minded  weapons  !  Well, 
I  never  could  abide  them !  from  a  child  I  never  could  fancy 
them  I  I  suppose  there  aint  been  so  merciless  a  beast  in  the 
world  as  your  loaded  pistol ! 

Acres.  Nonsense!  I  won't  be  afraid  !  Odds  fire  and  fury  ! 
you  shan't  make  me  afraid.  Here  is  the  challenge,  and  I 
have  sent  for  my  dear  friend,  Jack  Absolute,  to  carry  it  for 
me. 

Dav.  Ay,  in  the  name  of  mischief  let  him  be  the  mes- 
senger. For  my  part  I  wouldn't  lend  a  hand  to  it,  for  the 
best  horse  in  your  stable.  By  the  mass  ;  it  don't  look  like 
another  letter  !  It  is,  as  I  may  say,  a  designing  and  mali- 
cious looking  letter !  and  I  warrant  smells  of  gunpowder, 
like  a  soldier's  pouch  !  Oons  I  I  wouldn't  swear  it  mayn't 
go  off! 

Acres.  Out,  you  poltroon  ! — you  haven't  the  valor  of  a 
grasshopper 

Dav.  Well,  I  say  no  more :  'twill  be  sad  news,  to  be 
sure,  at  Clod  Hall,  but  I  ha'  done.  How  Phyllis  will  howl 
when  she  hears  of  it  I  Ay.  poor  dog  she  little  thinks  what 
shooting  her  master's  going  after  I  And  I  warrant  old  Crop, 
who  has  carried  your  honor,  field  and  road,  these  ten  years, 
will  curse  the  hour  he  was  born  !     [  Whi}7t]?ering.'\ 

Acres.     It  won't  do,  David — T  am  determined  to  fight,  so 
get  along,  you  coward,  while  I'm  in  the  mind. 
[Enter  Servant.  | 

Servant.     Captain  Absolute,  sir. 

Acres.     0  !  show  him  up.     yExit  Servant.'] 

Dav.  Well,  heaven  send  we  be  all  alive  this  time  to- 
morrow. 

Acres.     What's  that?     Don't  provoke  me,  David  ! 

Dav.     Good-bye,  master.     [Sobbing.] 


232  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Acres.  Get  along,  you  cowardly,  dastardly,  croaking 
raven.     [Exit  David.'] 

[Enter  Captain  Absolute.'] 

Capt.  A.     What's  the  matter,  Bob  ? 

Acres.  A  vile,  sheep-hearted  blockhead  !  If  I  hadn't  the 
valor  of  St.  George,  and  the  dragon  to  boot — 

Cajit.  A.     But  what  did  you  want  with  me,  Bob? 

Acres.     Oh!  there.     [Gives  him  the  challenge.] 

CajJt.  A.  "  To  Ensign  Beverley."  So — what's  going  on 
now?     [Aside.]     Well,  what's  this  ? 

Acres.     A  challenge  ! 

Capt.  A.  Indeed  !  Why,  you  won't  fight  him,  will  you, 
Bob? 

Acres.  Egad,  but  I  will,  Jack.  Sir  Lucius  has  wrought 
me  to  it.  He  has  left  me  full  of  rage  and  I'll  fight  this 
evening,  that  so  much  good  passion  mayn't  be  wasted. 

Capt.  A.     But  what  have  I  to  do  with  this  ? 

Acres.  Why,  as  I  think  you  know  something  of  this  fel- 
low, I  want  you  to  find  him  out  for  me,  and  give  him  this 
mortal  defiance. 

CajJt.  A.     Well,  give  it  me^  and  trust  me  he  gets  it. 

Acres.  Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,  my  dear  Jack  ;  but 
it  is  giving  you  a  great  deal  of  trouble. 

Capt.  A.  Not  in  the  least — I  beg  you  won't  mention  it. 
No  trouble  in  the  world,  I  assure  yoii. 

Acres.  You  are  very  kind.  What  it  is  to  have  a  friend  ! 
You  couldn't  be  my  second,  could  you.  Jack? 

Capt.  A.  Why,  no.  Bob.  not  in  this  affair  -it  would  not 
be  quite  so  proper. 

Acres.  Well,  then,  I  must  get  my  friend.  Sir  Lucius.  I 
shall  have  your  good  wishes,  however,  Jack  ? 

Capt.  A.     Whenever  he  meets  you.  believe  me. 
[Eiiter  servant.] 

Serv.  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  is  below,  inquiring  for  the 
captain. 

Capt.  A.  I'll  come  instantly.  [Exit  servant.]  Well, 
my  little  hero,  success  attend  you.     [  Going.] 

Acres.  Stay,  stay,  Jack.  If  Beverley  should  ask  you 
what  kind  of  a  man  your  friend  Acres  is,  do  tell  him  I'm  a 
tremendous  fellow — will  you,  Jack? 

Capt.  A.  To  be  sure,  I  shall.  I'll  say  you  are  a  deter- 
mined dog — hey.  Bob? 

Acres.     Ay,  do,  do :  and  if  that  frightens  him,  egad,  per- 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  233 

haps  he  mayn't  come.  So  tell  him  I  generally  kill  a  man  a 
week  ;  will  you,  Jack  ? 

Capt.  A.  I  will,  I  will;  I'll  say  you  are  called,  in  the 
country,  '•  Fighting  Bob." 

Acres.  Right,  right— 'tis  all  to  prevent  mischief:  fori 
don't  want  to  take  his  life,  if  I  clear  my  honor. 

Capt.  A.     No  !  that's  very  kind  of  you. 

Acres.  Why,  you  don't  wish  me  to  kill  him,  do  you, 
Jack  ? 

Caj^t.  A.  No  upon  my  soul,  I  do  not.  But  a  tremendous 
fellow,  hey?     \^Going.'\ 

Acres.  True,  true.  But  stay,  stay.  Jack :  you  may  add, 
that  you  never  saw  me  in  such  a  rage  before — a  most  de- 
vouring rage. 

Capt.  A.     I  will,  I  will. 

Acres,     llemember,  Jack — a  determined  dog  ! 

Capt.  A.     Ay,  ay,  '•'  Fighting  Bob."  \^Eoceunt^ 


X.— MISERIES  OF  WEALTH.— O'^nm. 

GRUB CONSOL. 

Grub.  [Alone.']  What  a  miserable  man  I  am  !  with  a 
wife  that  is  positive,  a  daughter  that  is  marriageable,  and  a 
hundred  thousand  pounds  in  the  stocks.  I  have  not  had  one 
wink  of  sleep  these  four  nights  for  them  :  any  one  of  them  is 
enough  to  make  a  man  mad  ;  but  all  three  to  be  attended  to 
at  once,  is  too  much.  Ah,  Jonathan  Grub.  Jonathan  Grub  ! 
riches  were  always  thy  wish  :  and,  now  thou  hast  them, 
they  are  thy  torment.  Will  this  confounded  broker  of  mine 
never  come?  'tis  time  he  were  here.  Stocks  fell  three  per 
cent,  to-day  ;  and  if  the  news  be  true,  will  tumble  dreadfully 
to-morrow.  [A  knocking  at  t/ie  door.]  There's  Mr.  Consol, 
I'm  sure.  .Who's  there?  Does  nobody  hear?  Open  the 
door,  somebody.  Open  the  door  for  Mr.  Consol — I  believe 
there  never  was  anybody  so  ill-served  as  I  am — nobody  to — 
[Consol  enters.]  0,  Mr.  Consol,  have  they  let  you  in? 
Well,  what  says  the  ambassador's  porter?  What  intelli- 
gence have  you  picked  up  ?  What  says  the  ambassador's 
porter  I 

20* 


234  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Consol.     Why,  he  says — Have  you  heard  nothing  since  t 

Grub.     No,  not  a  syllable.     What  does  he  say  ? 

Co7i.  Why,  he  said  his  excellency  was  at  home  all  last 
night. 

Gruh  Indeed  !  at  home  all  last  night — ay,  reading  the 
dispatches^ — a  war  as  sure  as  can  be — oh  !  the  stocks  will 
fall  confoundedly  to-morrow — I  shall  lose  all  I  have  in  the 
world.  Why  did  I  not  take  Whisper's  advice,  and  sell  out 
yesterday?  I  should  have  made  one  and  a  half  per  cent, 
and  been  snug:  but  now  — 

Con.  Why,  but  you  are  so  hasty,  Mr.  Grub,  you  are  so 
hasty ;  you  won't  hear  me  out,  you  are  so  hasty,  as  I  tell 
my  wife. 

Grub.  0,  hang  your  wife — hear  you  out !  What  more 
have  you  to  say?     Tell  me  quickly. 

Con.  Why,  the  porter  said  his  excellency  was  at  home 
all  the  evening. 

Grub.  Well,  man,  did  not  you  say  so  before  ?  Why  do 
you  repeat  it?  You  grow  the  arrantest  old  fool  I  ever  saw. 
But  what  of  his  being  at  home?  .  Tell  me  that? 

Co7t.  Why,  I  will,  if  you  will  but  hear  me  out: — was 
at  home  all  night — all  night,  says  I  ?     Yes,  sir,  says  he — 

Grub.     Oh,  if  you  are  got  to  your  says  I's  and  says-he's. 

Cori:     Nay,  pray.  Mr.  G-rub.  hear  me  out. 

Grub.  Well.  well,  well,  I  hear  you,  man  ;  but,  in  the 
meantime,  all  I  have  in  the  world,  the  labor  of  fift}^  years,  is 
going  going,  at  a  blow.  Oh  !  this  cursed  Spanish  war — I  am 
sure  we  shall  have  a  Spanish  war — I  always  saw  it  would 
come  to  this — I  was  sure,  at  the  .time  of  the  peace,  that  we 
should  have  a  Spanish  war  one  time  or  other — but.  pr'ythee, 
man,  cut  thy  story  short. 

Con.  Well,  well,  to  cut  the  story  short,  when  I  asked 
him  if  he  could  find  out,  or  guess  what  made  the  ambassa- 
dor stay  at  home  all  night,  he  told  me  that  the  ambassador 
had  a  woman  playing  upon  a  fiddle  to  him  all  the  evening. 

Grub.  A  woman  playing  upon  the  fiddle  !  What,  to  an 
ambassador  of  one  of  the  first  powers  of  Europe?  It  must 
be  a  joke.  Why.  man,  they  make  you  believe  any  nonsense 
they  invent. 

Con.  Well,  well ;  however  that  may  be,  I  have  got  rare 
news  from  another  quarter  for  you. 

Grub.  Have  ye?  well,  what  is  it?  None  of  your  says- 
I's  and  says  he's  now,  I  beg  of  you. 

Con.     Why,  he  says  there's  great  news.     India  stock  is 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  235 

up  six  per  cent  already,  and  expected  to  be  as  much  more 
by  'change  time  to-morrow. 

Grub  My  dear  Consol,  I  thank  you — that  revives  me. 
Then  hurry  into  the  city  and  buy  as  fast  as  you  can. — That 
revives  me— that's  great  news  indeed.  The  newspapers 
have  put  me  into  a  dreadful  fright  of  late. 

Con.  Yes,  sir ;  to  be  sure,  they  always  keep  up  a  sad 
rumpus  in  the  papers.  ^ 

Grub.  Rumpus !  Why,  man,  I  never  know  what  to 
think,  they  puzzle  me  so.  Why,  now,  of  a  morning  at 
breakfast,  in  the  first  column,  a  Friend  to  the  Stockholders 
shall  tell  me,  and  write  very  well  and  sensibly,  that  we  have 
got  the  Indies  in  our  pockets — then  that  puts  me  into  spir- 
its, and  I'll  eat  you  a  muffin  extraordinary.  When  I  turn 
to  the  next  column,  there  we  are  all  undone  again ;  another 
very  clever  fellow  says  we  are  all  bankrupts,  and  the  cream 
turns  on  my  stomach. 

However  this  is  substantial.  So,  my  dear  Consol,  you 
are  a  very  sensible  man  ;  and  if  you  could  but  learn  to  leave 
out  your  says-I's  and  says-he's,  as  good  a  broker  as  ever  man 
put  faith  in. 


Fluellen.    If  I  owe  you  anything,  I  will  pay  you  in  cudgels  :  you  shall  bo  a  vinod 
monger,  and  ouy  nothing  of  me  but  cudgels.— i/e7iry  V. 


236  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


XL— FROM  THE  BASHFUL  MAN. 

SIR  THOMAS  FRIENDLY BLUSHINGTON FRANK GYP — EVANS 

NICHOLAS LADY  FRIENDLY DINAH. 

Scene  1. — Library  in  Friendly  Hall.  At  the  back,  a  handsome  rose 
wood  table,  on  which  is  a  head  of  Hercules  and  an  elegant  ink-stand ;  ovei 
that,  on  a  sort  of  shelf,  a  superb  edition  of  Xenophon,  in  sixteen  volumes 

[Enter  Sir  rhomas  and  Lady  Friendly.'] 

Lady  Friendly.  But  why  not  receive  Mr.  Blushington 
in  the  great  drawing-room.  Sir  Thomas? 

Sir  Thomas.  There's  my  management,  my  lady  !  Being 
a  scholar.  Mr.  Blushington  will  feel  at  once  the  delicacy  of 
the  compliment  I  pay  him,  by  first  introducing  him  to  the 
library:  besides,  the  apparent  number  of  books  he  will  see 
here.  wiJl  give  him  a  high  opinion  of  my  erudition  ;  there's 
management  again  I  Wouldn't  any  one  think  to  look  at  it, 
that  was  really  a  fine  edition  of  Xenophon,  in  folio?  Instead 
of  which,  it's  merely  a  deal  board,  covered  with  some  gilded 
leather,  for  the  maids  to  put  their  pails  and  brn.shes  behind. 
All  my  contrivance  !  But  mum  I  here  he  comes.  Oh!  this 
plaguy  gout! — But  I  must  get  up  and  receive  him. 
[Enter  Blushi7igton.  pushed  on  by  Gyp,  preceded  by  Evans^ 
and  followed  by  Nick  and  servants.'] 

Evans.     Mr.  Blushington,  Sir  Thomas. 

Blushington.  Don't  leave  me,  Gyp ;  the  awful  moment 
has  arrived. 

Sir  T.     Mr.  Blushington,  I  rejoice  to  meet  you. 

Gyp.  Fifth  position,  sir.  \Bhishington,  in  endeavoring  to 
piit  himself  into  an  attitude^  stumbles  and  pitches  on  Sir 
Thomas's  gouty  foot ^ 

Sir  T.  Oh !  confound  the  fellow,  he's  murdered  me. 
yAsideP] 

Blush.  You  infernal  scoundrel,  Gyp!  you've  made  me 
tread  Sir  Thomas's  toe  off  My  dear  Sir  Thomas,  I  beg  ten 
thousand  pardons  ;  but — but — 

Sir  T.  No  apologies,  I  beg:  these  little  accidents  will 
happen.  It's  over  now :  yes.  as  we  scholars  say,  it's  gone 
in  toto. 

Gyp.  All's  right,  sir  ! — Now  for  the  speech.  [Apart  to 
Blushington.] 

Blush.  [Apart  to  Gyp.]  My  tongue  sticks  to  my 
throat;  I  couldn't  utter  a  syllable  to  save  my  life. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  23*7 

Sir  T.  Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  Lady  Friendly. 
Lady  Friendly,  Mr  Blushing^ton —  ' 

Blush.     Happy — proud — dinner — sorry — acquaintance — 

Sir  T.  Ay,  ay  ;  well  thought  of.  Go,  varlets.  and  hurry 
the  dinner.  No  gig-gling,  hussies  ! — Away  !  {Exeunt  Nick 
and  servants']  Evans  take  Mr.  Blushington's  man  into 
the  pantry,  and  make  hfm  welcome. 

Blush.  Oh  dear !  no  ;  no  occasion  for  that.  Sir  Thomas. 
Lord  bless  me  !  don't  leave  me.  Gyp.  What  shall  I  do  by 
myself,  if  they  take  my  only  prop  away.     [Aside  to  Gyp.'] 

Gyp.  Courage,  sir !  you  get  on  famously.  I  must  go.  you 
see — can't  help  it.     [Aside  to  BlusJdngton]     Poor  fellow! 

Evans.  This  way.  if  you  please,  sir.  [Exeunt  Gyp 
and  Evans.] 

Blush  What  will  become  of  me  !  without  guide  or  rud- 
der I'm  lost ! 

Sir  T.     Take  a  chair,  Mr.  Blushington  ;  you  seem  warm  ! 

Blush.     [Aside.]     I'm  frying ! 

Sir  T.  You  perceive  Mr.  Blushington,  we're  like  you — 
dabble  in  literature  a  little  :  smack  of  the  classics  a  bit ! 

Blush.  The  classics  :  I  can  lanch  out  here  ;  I'm  on  safe 
ground.  [Aside.]  Yes  Sir  Thomas  -certainly — by  all 
means. 

Sir  T.  Delightful  study.  I  fagged  hard  hard,  at  col- 
lege, Mr.  Blushington  ;  and  was,  I  can  assure  you,  very 
near  being  elected  senior  wrangler. 

Blush.     I  don't  doubt  it.     I  chafe  like  a  bull.     [Aside.] 

Lady  F.  We  are  all  great  readers,  Mr.  Blushington  ;  my 
daughter  Dinah  in  particular  ;  before  she  was  twelve  years 
old,  she  had  gone  twice  through  '  The  Complete  House- 
wife" and  '•  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man."  You'll  suit  one  an- 
other to  a  T,  in  that  respect. 

Blush.  Hum  !  Oh  yes  certainly,  my  lady,  by  all  means  ; 
though  I  can't  say  I've  been  through  -  The  Whole  Duty  of 
Man."  and  '•  The  Complete  Housewife."  They're  rather 
ignorant:  I  must  astonish  them  a  little  bit  with  the  extent 
of  my  learning.  I  begin  to  get  more  courage  than  I  thought 
for.  Yes  I'll  surprise  them  no  v.  [Aside  \  Bless  me.  that's 
a  very  remarkable  eaition  of  Xenophon  there — sixteen  vol- 
imes  folio  ;  allow  me  to  examine  it.     [Getting  up.] 

Sir  T.     [Rising.]     Stop  stop,  my  dear  Mr.  Blushington, 

r— 

Blush.  Oh  !  Sir  Thomas,  I  couldn't  think  of  giving  you 
the  trouble.     [Goes,  as  he  .n/pjxjses  to  lay  hold  of  one  of  fJte 


238  NKW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

volumes^  when  the  hoar  I  falls  down  on  the  slab,  breaks  th^. 
Hercules'  head^  and  vjjsets  the  ink-stand^  Hey  '  v/hat ! 
books — boards  !  what  have  I  done  ?  what  shall  I  do  ?  I 
beg-  ten  thousand  pardons,  Sir  Thomas ;  upon  my  word,  I 
didn't  mean  to  do  it.  If  I'd  known  it  had  only  been  sham 
— bless  me  !  here's  all  the  ink  down  too.  Oh  dear !  oh 
dear  I  what  an  accident. 

Lady  F.  I  thought  what  would  come  of  your  fine  man- 
agement, Sir  Thomas.  Where's  a  cloth  ?  the  table  will  be 
spoiled  ! 

Blush.  Here's  a  cloth,  my  lady.  \_Takes  his  white  cam- 
bric handkerchief  ,  a7id  begins  iviping  up  the  ink.\  Bless 
me  !  I'm  inking  my  handkerchief  [^Folds  up  the  handker 
chief  the  inky  part  inside^  and  puts  it  in  his  pocket.']  Ex- 
cuse my  awkwardness,  my  lady  :  I — -I — oh  dear !  that  I 
could  but  run  away.  If  Gyp  vvas  but  here! 
\Enter  Evfins.] 

Evans.     Dinner's  on  table,  Sir  Thomas. 

Blush.     Here's  a  relief  then.     I'm  in  a  furnace. 

Sir  T.  I  won't  hear  another  word  on  the  subject ;  there's 
no  harm  done  ;  only  the  cover  taken  off  the  books,  Hercules' 
head  broke,  and  Mr.  Blushington's  handkerchief  stained. 
You've  received  no  material  contusion  yourself,  I  hope,  my 
dear  young  friend  ? 

Blush.  Oh  dear,  no  !  I'm  in  no  material  confusion  at  all : 
quite  cool,  I  assure  you.  I  wish  I  could  jump  out  of  the 
window.     Mount  Vesuvius  is  an  ice-house,  to  this.   \Aside.'\ 

Sir  T.  Come  along,  then,  and  I'll  introduce  you  at  once 
to  Dinah  and  dinner. 

Blush.  More  trials  !  what  shall  I  have  to  go  through 
next  ?  Heaven  preserve  me  !  Lady  Friendly,  allow  me  to 
offer  my  arm.  {Offers  his  arm  to  Evans ^  by  mistake.^  and 
lugs  him  off.  tmknoivingly.  j 

Sir  T.  I'll  take  your  other  wing,  as  I'm  rather  lame. 
Stop,  stop.  Eh !  indeed  !  you  young  fellows  are  so  brisk. 
I  can't  run  races  now.  Why,  hang  me  if  he  hasn't  carried 
off  the  butler  !  [Exeunt. \ 

Scene  2. — The  great  Dining-room  in  Friendly  Hall ;  table  laid  out  for 
dinner. 

[Enter  Dinah  and  Frank.] 
Frank.     Now,  then,  Di.  for  the  important  moment.     An't 
v'-QU  all  in  a  twitter? 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  239 

Dinah.  La,  Frank,  how  you  do  go  on  !  Has  Evans 
summoned  the  family  to  dinner  yet? 

Frank.  He  is  gone  now.  Poor  Ned  !  I  can  well  con- 
ceive the  agony  he  is  in,  at  this  moment:  blushing  like  a 
full-blown  rose,  every  step  he  takes.  Hey  !  here  they  come. 
\_Enter  Sir  Thomas.,  Lady  Friendly^  and  Blushington ;  fol- 
loived  by  Evans.,  Gyp,  Nick,  and  Servants.] 

Ha !  my  dear  Blushington  !  Welcome  !  welcome  !  I  re- 
joice to  meet  a  fellow  cantab,  a  brother  soph,  once  again. 
Allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  my  sister.  Brother  Soph,  sis- 
ter Di. ;  sister  Di.,  brother  Soph. 

Blush.  Thank  ye,  my  dear  fellow,  thank  ye — hope  you're 
well,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul.  [Advances  timidly,  and^ 
without  looking  towards  Dinah,  shakes  her  Jiecirtily  by  the 
hand^  supposing  her  to  be  young  Friendly?^ 

Sir  T.     Eh  !  that's  Dinah.     This  is  Frank. 

Blush.  Happy  to  see  you,  miss — hope  you're  quite  well, 
miss.  [Bowing  to  Frank,  tvJto  has  taken  DinaJis  place,  sup- 
posing him  to  be  Dinah.  \ 

Frank.     Nay,  nay  ;  here's  Dinah. 

Blush.  Oh  !  yes,  certainly — by  all  means.  Another 
mistake.  [Aside.]  Extremely  proud,  Mr.  Friendly— great 
honor — happy — see — Miss  Dinah — 

Dinah.  Very  gratified.  Mr.  Blushington,  to  have  the 
honor  of  meeting  any  friend  of  my  brother. 

Sir  T.  But  come,  take  your  places;  the  dinner's  getting 
cold.     Mr.  Blushington.  you  will  sit  by  my  daughter. 

Blush.  Yes.  certainly  ;  by  all  means — that  is — oh!  with 
great  pleasure.  What  will  become  of  me?  oh!  that  wooden 
Xenophon.  I  feel  my  cheeks  burning  like  a  firebrand;  and 
misfortunes  never  come  alone.  [^Aside.]  Dear  me !  if  I 
haven't  taken  the  young  lady's  chair:  beg  pardon.  [After 
some  blunders  o?i  the  part  of  Blushington^  with  the  chairs^ 
they  sit  down  to  dinner — he  first  seating  himself  in  DinaJi's 
lap  by  mistake ;  the  baronet  and  his  lady  sit  at  the  back^ 
fronting  the  audience — Frank  on  one  side.,  arul  Dinah  and 
Blushington  on  the  outside,  nearest  the  audience,  so  that 
they  can  see  the  motions  of  all  parties^ 

Sir  T.  Now,  then.  Mr.  Blushington,  allow  me  to  send 
you  some  soup,  and  you,  Dinah  :  'tis  turtle,  and  fit  for  young 
lovers. 

Blush.  .You're  very  good — a  little  drop — I'm  getting 
somewhat  cool  now,  if  it  does  but  last.  [Aside.]  Bread, 
Miss  Dinah ;  allow  me  to  help  you.     Eh  !  bless  me ;  if  I 


*240  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUPJS. 

haven't  knocked  over  the  salt.  Oh,  dear!  oh  dear!  Ex- 
cuse my  awkwardness  miss.      I'm  at  it  again.     [Aside.] 

Dinah.  Don't  mention  it  I  beg;  'tis  not  of  the  slightest 
consequence.     We  are  not  in  the  least  superstitious  here. 

Sir  T.  Throw  a  little  over  your  left  shoulder,  Mr.  Blush- 
mgton.  [Bluskingfon,  in  throwing  some  of  the  salt  over  his 
left  shoulder,  almost  blinds  Nicholas^  ivho  is  standing  behind 
him  with  his  mouth  open,  and  receives  it  in  his  face ;  en- 
deavoring to  amend  the  error,  he  then  salutes  Sir  Thomas 
in  a  similar  manner,  and,  in  his  confusion.^  tilts  his  plate 
of  hot  soup  into  his  lap.'] 

Blush.     Oh,  dear  !     Oh,  dear  I 

Sir  T.     Hey  1  zounds,  what's  the  matter  now  ? 

Nick.  'Squire  ha'  tilted  the  hot  soup  over  his  breeches, 
Sir  Thomas. 

Sir  T.  Dear!  dear!  what  an  accident!  Some  clean 
cloths,  rascal. 

Lady  F.  It's  always  unlucky  to  upset  the  salt.  I 
thought  something  fatal  would  happen  through  it. 

Dinah.  I  hope  no  material  injury  is  like  to  occur  from 
this,  Mr.  Blushington? 

Frank.  You  haven't  completely  scalded  yourself?  Noth- 
ing fatal  is  there,  Ned?  AVhy  don't  you  bring  some  nap- 
kins. Nicholas  ? 

Blush.  I  mustn't  appear  to  mind  it  though  I  am  more 
than  three  parts  parboiled.  [Aside.]  Not  at  all — not  at  all 
— 'tis  a  mere  trifle. 

JVick.  I'll  wipe  you  down.  sir.  Nothing  shall  be  spoiled: 
your  silks  will  be  as  good  as  ever,  with  a  little  washing.  It 
hasn't  taken  the  skin  off  has  it,  sir?  There,  now  you're  as 
well  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 

Blush.  [Aside.]  As  well  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
after  such  a  fomentation  as  this?  Why, my  legs  and  thighs 
seem  stewing  in  a  boiling  cauldron.  Oh.  dear!  oh,  dear  !  if 
anybody  would  but  chuck  me  into  the  New  River  now. 

Sir  'F.  Here,  Nicholas,  take  away  the  soup.  You  don'l 
vvish  for  any  more,  do  you,  Mr.  Blushington  ? 

Blush.     Not  a  drop  I  can  assure  you. 

Sir  T.  No;  I  think  we've  had  enough.  Shall  I  trouble! 
you  to  cut  up  that  capon  ? 

Blush.  Carve  a  capon  !  Lord  bless  me,  I  couldn't  carve 
a  cabbage;  but  T  must  not  let  them  see  my  ignorance.  I 
must  try  and  hack  it,  somehow.  [Aside.]  Oh,  yes;  cer 
tainly,  by  all  means.     Eh!  there,  if  I  haven't  knocked  ovel 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  241 

the  butter-boat.  Nothing-  but  misfortunes.  Oh !  that  I 
could  hide  myself  forever  from  the  light  of  day! 

Lady  F.  Allow  me,  Mr.  Biushington.  You  young-  bach- 
elors are  not  so  used  to  carving  as  us  old  married  folks :  Di- 
nah is  as  awkward  at  carving  as  anjr  one.  Matrimony  is 
the  only  thing  to  make  good  carvers. 

Blush.  Certainly  ;  by  all  means  !  Your  ladyship  is  ex- 
tremely good.  I'd  give  a  thousand  pounds  if  dinner  was  but 
once  well  over.     [Aside.] 

Frank.  Mr.  Blushington,  Dinah  will  take  a  glass  of  wine 
with  you. 

Blush.  Oh  !  yes,  certainly  ;  by  all  means  !  Lord  bless 
me  !     Shall  I  take  the  liberty,  miss  ? 

Dinah.  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Blushington,  but  that  is 
the  vinegar  cruet  you  have  in  your  hand ;  there  is  the  bu- 
cellas 

Blush.  Ask  ten  thousand  pardons,  I'm  sure ;  but  my 
sight — [  Takes  hold  of  a  jug  of  beer.  J 

Dinah.     No  ;  that  is  the  beer. 

Blush.  True  :  yes,  certainly  ;  by  all  means  !  that  is  the 
beer :  this  is  the  wine.  Very  laughable  !  Can't  think  how 
I  can  make  so  many  mistakes  !  Am  extremely  happy  lo 
nob  and  hob — that  is.  hob  and  nob. 

*S^?>  T.  Let  me  recommend  a  piece  of  this  pudding,  Mr. 
Blushington  :  you'll  find  it  uncommonly  good  ;  I  can  assure 
you  I  do. 

Blush.  Oh  !  yes  ;  certainly,  by  all  means.  [Sir  Thomas 
kelps  Blushington  to  some  pudding ;  he  cuts  a  piece  and  is 
about  to  put  it  into  his  mouth.  ] 

Dinah.  Shall  I  trouble  you  for  a  part  of  that  widgeon, 
Mr.  Blushington  ? 

Blush.  Oh  !  yes :  certainly,  by  all  means.  [Pops  the 
piece  of  pudding  into  his  mouth.']  Eh!  oh!  ah!  I- -my 
mouth  !  my  mouth  ! — fire  1  water  ! — I'm  burnt !  I'm — oh  ' 
ah!  eh! 

Sir  T  God  bless  me  ! — Ah  !  there's  nothing  so  bad  as 
hot  pudding.     Some  water  there.  Nicholas  ! 

Lady  F.  No ;  oil  is  the  best  for  drawing  out  fire.  Sir 
Thomas.     The  poor  young  man  is  full  of  accidents  ! 

Dinah.  If  I  might  advise,  Mr.  Blushington,  I  would 
recommend  wine. 

All.     Ay,  ay  ;  a  glass  of  sherry. 

Frank.     Nicholas,  bring  a  glass  of  sherry,  rascal  ! 

Nich.  [Aside.]  Sherry  !  I'll  give  him  a  little  brandy. 
P  21 


242  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

He  needs  something,  so  clashed  as  he  is :  besides,  he  gave 
me  some  strong  ale  this  morning,  and  one  good  turn  deserves 
another  Here  it  be,  sir.  [  Gives  BlusJdngton  a  glass  of 
brandy.'] 

Blush.  Certainly,  by  all  means — thank  ye.  [Drinl'S.^ 
Oh!  murder,  murder!  I'm  sacrificed — I'm  skinned — I'm — 
oh  dear  !  oh  dear ! — the  brandy,  the  brandy  I 

Gyp.     I  must  get  him  away;  he's  incurable. 

Sir  T.  What  do  you  mean,  scoundrel  by  giving  the  gen- 
tleman brandy !  You  incendiary,  do  you  think  we  are  play- 
ing at  Snap  dragon  f  Silence  your  giggling  there,  or  I'll 
discharge  the  whole  of  you  !  Compose  yourself.  Mr.  Blush- 
ington      Be  cool !     Sit  down  a  bit. 

Blush.  I'm  in  a  perspiration  -  a  conflagration  !  Where's 
my  hand  kerchief  ?  [  Takes  his  inhy  handkerchief  and  blacks 
his  face.'] 

Sir  T.     Oh  !  oh  !  but  I  can't  stand  that. 

Gyp.  I  must  get  him  away.  Leave  the  place,  sir. 
[  Taking  away  his  chair  to  give  him  room.] 

Blush.  Eh  I  leave  the  place,  Gryp !  certainly,  by  all 
means.  I — \Blushington  rushes  off.  drawing  l.he  table-cloth.^ 
which  lie  has  fastened  to  his  button-hole.^  after  him.,  overthrow- 
ing t/ie  whole  of  the  dinner  things.]  [Exeunt.] 


.Vir.holas.    Ho-w  sensibly  ho  talks !  why,  'tis  five  thousand  per  cent,  profit.     I'll  be 
blod  directly. — Secrets  worth  Knowing. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  243 

XIL— A  MAN  IN  LOVE  WITH  HIS  WIFE  \— Murphy. 

SIR    BASHFUL LOVEMORE. 

Sir  Bashful.  Walk  in,  Mr.  Lovemore,  walk  in ! — I  am 
heartily  glad  to,  see  you  ! — This  is  kind. 

Lovemore.  I  am  ready,  you  see,  to  attend  the  call  of 
friendship. 

Sir  Bash.     Mr.  Lovemore.  you  are  a  friend,  indeed. 

Love.  You  do  me  honor,  Sir  Bashful. — Pray,  how  does 
my  lady  ? 

Sir  Bash.  Perfectly  well.  T  never  saw  her  look  better 
— We  have  had  another  skirmish  since  I  saw  you. 

Love.     Another  ? 

Sir  Bash.  Ay,  another !  and  I  did  not  bate  her  an  ace. 
— But  I  told  you  I  had  something  for  your  private  ear. — 
Pray,  now,  have  you  remarked  anything  odd  or  singular  in 
me? 

Love.  Not  the  least. — I  never  knew  a  man  with  less  odd- 
ity in  my  life. 

Sir  Bash.  What,  nothing  at  all  ?  Have  you  remarked 
nothing  about  iny  wife? 

Love.  You  don't  live  happily  with  her,  but  that  is  not 
singular. 

Sir  Bash.  Poo  ! — I  tell  you,  Mr.  Lovemore,!  am  at  the 
bottom  a  very  odd  fellow 

Love.     Not  at  all. 

Sir  Bash.  Yes,  yes.  yes,  I  am — I  am  indeed  as  odd  a 
fish  as  lives — and  you  must  have  seen  it  before  now. 

Love.     Not  I.  truly  !     You  are  not  jealous,  I  hope? 

Sir  Bash.  You  have  not  hit  the  right  nail  o'  the  head — 
no — no — not  jealous.  Do  her  justice,  I  am  secure  there. — ■ 
My  lady  has  high  notions  of  honor.     It  is  not  that. 

Love.     What  then  ? 

Sir  Bash.     Can't  you  guess  ? 

Love.     Not  I,  upon  my  honor  ! — Explain. 

Sir  Bash.  You  could  never  have  imagined  it — I  blush 
at  the  very  thought  of  it. 

Love.  Come,  come,  be  a  man.  Sir  Bashful — out  with  it 
at  once,  let  me  be  of  your  council. 

Sir  Bash.  Mr.  Lovemore  T  doubt  you.  and  yet  esteem 
you. — Some  men  there  are  who.  when  a  confidence  is  once 
reposed  in  them,  take  occasion  from  thence  to  hold  a  hank 


244  NEW  SCHOOL  Di ALonrrs. 

over  their  friend,  and  tyrannize  over  him  all  the  rest  of  his 
days. 

Love.  0,  fie  ! — This  is  ung-enerous  !  True  friendship  is 
of  another  quality — it  feels  from  sympathy,  and  is  guarded 
by  honor. 

Sir  Bash.  Mr.  Lovemore  I  have  no  further  doubt  of 
you — and  so — stay,  stay  a  moment,  let  me  just  step  to  the 
door.  Servants  have  a  way  of  listening — no.  no — all's  safe 
— there  was  nobody.  Mr.  Lovemore.  I  will  make  you  the 
depositary — the  faithful  depositary  of  a  secret,  which  to  you 
will  appear  a  mystery.  My  inclinations^  Mr.  Lovemore — 
nay,  but  you'll  laugh  at  me. 

Love.     No — upon  my  honor  ; — No.  no. 

Sir  Bash.  Well,  well,  well. — My  inclinations,  T  say,  are 
changed — no,  not  changed — but — they  are  not  what  they 
have  appeared  to  be — I  am  in  love — 'sdeath,  I  am  quite 
ashamed  of  myself 

Love.  Ashamed  !  Love  is  a  noble  passion.  But  don't 
tell  me  any  more  about  it. — My  Lady  Constant  will  find  it 
out,  and  lay  the  blame  to  me — I  must  not  appear  to  encour- 
age you— no.  no — you  must  not  involve  me  in  a  quarrel 
with  her. 

Sir  Bash.  Pshaw  ! — you  don't  take  me  right — quite 
wide  of  the  mark — hear  me  out 

Love.     I  won't — indeed  I  won't  I 

Sir  Bash      Nay,  but  you  shall,  you  shall. 

Love.  Positively  no  ! — Let  me  keep  clear.  She  shall 
certainly  know  it. 

Sir  Bash.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Lovemore — the  object  of  my 
passion— this  charming  woman,  on  whom  I  dote  to  distrac- 
tion— 

Love.     I  don't  desire  to  know  it. 

Sir  Bash     You  must,  you  must:  this  adorable  creature  — 

Love.     Keep  it  to  yourself  Sir  Bashful. 

Sir  Bash.  Who  looks  so  lovely  in  my  eyes  —is — my 
own  wife. 

Love.     Your  own  wife  ? 

Sir  Bash.     Yes  my  own  wife. 

Love.     This  is  the  most  unexpected  discovery — 

Sir  Bash.  Look  ye  there  now — he  laughs  at  me  al- 
ready ! — 

Love.  And  can  this  be  possible  ? — Are  you  really  in  love 
with  my  Lady  Constant  ?     Your  own  wife  ! 


COMIC    AND    AMUSIN'G.  245 

Sir  Bash.  Spare  my  confusion,  Mr.  Lovemore  :  spare 
my  confusion. — Ay,  it's  all  over  with  me. 

Love.     I  should  never  have  guossed  this  Sir  Bashful. 

Sir  Bash.  I  have  made  myself  very  ridiculous,  Mr.  Love- 
more  ;  I  know  I  have. 

Love.  Ridiculous  ! — far  from  it — why  do  you  think  it 
ridiculous  to  love  a  valuable  woman  1  Poo.  poo  !  cheer  up, 
man  ;  and  now  to  keep  you  in  countenance,  I'll  deposit  a 
secret  with  you — I  love  my  wife. 

Sir  Bash.     What  ? 

I/)ve.     I  am  in  love  wnth  ray  wife. 

Sir  Basil.  Ha,  ha! — nO;  no  ! — you  don't  love  her'.^Do 
you,  Mr.  Lovemore? 

Love.     Upon  my  honor  ! 

Sir  Bash.     What,  love  your  wife  ? 

Love.     Most  ardently ! 

Sir  Bash.  Give  me  your  hand — give  me  your  hand  !  I 
am  glad  to  know  this  ! 

.  Love.     I  love  her  most  sincerely. — But  then  T  never  let 
her  know  it — no — no — I  would  not  have  the  world  know  it. 

Sir  Bash.  Well,  well — give  me  your  hand — give  me 
your  hand — my  dear  brother  sufferer — I  rejoice  I  am  not 
singular  in  loving  my  own  wife ! 


XTII— FROM  PAUL  PRY.~Poo/e. 

TANKARD BILLY OL  DBUTTON PAUL    PRY. 

\ Enter  Tankard  and  Billy.'] 

Tankard.  Now,  Billy,  as  this  is  the  first  week  of  your 
service,  you  must  stir  about  you.  look  well  to  the  customers, 
and  see  they  want  nothing. 

Billy.  I  warrant  me,  sir ;  though  the  folks  say  I  look 
harmless,  I'm  sharp  ;  I  carry  my  wits  about  me  in  a  case  as 
my  grandmother  carries  her  scissors :  but,  sir,  when  I  like, 
I  can  draw  and  cut.  1  can  assure  you. 

Tan.  Well,  this  is  to  be  proved';  now  you  know  what 
you  have  to  do.  to-day. 

Bil.  First,  there's  to  attend  to  Captain  Hawkesley,  in  the 
blue  room  ;  he  that  locks  himself  up  pU  day,  and  only  comes 
out  with  the  stars.     Then  there's  !.o  look  to  the  fire- works, 


246  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

when  the  company  arrives.  Then  there's  to  get  .eady  the 
room  that  you  call  the  Elephant,  for  the  new  company,  Mr. 
Oldbutton.  and -and  the  last  of  all — 

Tan.     To  get  rid  of  that  impudent  Paul  Pry. 

Bil.     I'll  do  it,  sir. 

Tan.  Will  you?  it's  more  than  I  can  ;  I  have  only  taken 
this  inn  six  months  and  he's  been  here  every  day.  First,  he 
asked  me  where  I  got  the  money  to  take  the  house  ;  then,  if 
I  was  married ;  whether  my  wife  bore  an  excellent  charac- 
ter; whether  my  children  had  had  the  measles:  and,  as  I 
wouldn't  answer  any  of  these  questions,  he  hoped  he  didn't 
intrude,  but  begged  to  know  how  many  lumps  of  sugar  I 
put  into  a  crown  bowl  of  punch. 

Bil.  Oh !  sir,  that's  nothing  to  what  he  asked  me  last 
night ;  he  asked  me  whether  you  gave  me  good  wages. 

Tan.     Well,  and  I  hope  you  gave  him  an  answer. 

Bil.     Yes,  I  did,  sir. 

Tan.     What  did  you  say  ? 

Bil.  Why,  I  told  him  my  wages  were  like  his  good  man- 
ners, very  little  of  'em  ;  but  I  hoped  they  would  both  soon 
mend. 

Tan.  Well,  Billy,  only  rid  me  of  this  intolerable  Paul, 
and  your  wages  shall  mend.  Here  has  this  Mr.  Pry,  al- 
though he  has  an  establishment  of  his  own  in  the  town, 
been  living  and  sleeping  here  these  six  days  !  But  I'm  de- 
termined to  get  rid  of  him ;  and  do  you  instantly  go,  Billy, 
and  affront  him ;  do  anything  with  him  ^o  as  you  make 
him  turn  his  back  upon  the  house.  Eh  here's  a  coach 
driven  up ;  it  is  surely  Mr.  Oldbutton ;  run,  Billy,  run. 
[Exit  Billy.']  Roaring  times,  these.  \Billy  enters^  shoiv- 
ing  in  Mr.  Oldbutton.']  Welcome,  sir,  most  welcome  to  the 
Golden  Chariot. 

Mr.  Oldbutton.  Landlord,  I  have  some  letters  to  answer  ; 
which  is  my  apartment  ? 

Tan.  Why,  sir— confound  that  Paul  Pry,  he  has  the 
gentleman's  room,  and  I  can't  get  him  out  of  it — why,  sir, 
I  did  not  expect  you  some  hours  yet;  if  you'll,  have  the 
kindness  to  step  into  this  apartment  for  a  few  minutes,  your 
own  room  shall  be  properly  arranged.  I  really  beg  ten 
thousand — 

Mr.  Old.  No  compliments,  Mr.  Landlord,  and  when  you 
speak  to  me  in  future,  keep  yourself  upright ;  I  hate  trades- 
men with  backs  of  whalebone. 

Tan.     Why,  civility,  Mr.  Oldbutton — 


COMIO    AND    AMUSING.  247 

Mr.  Old.  Is  this  the  room?  [^llmkard  bows.  Exit 
Oldbutton.l 

Tan.  Now  such  a  customer  would  deeply  offend  a  man, 
if  he  had  not  the  ultimate  satisfaction  of  making  out  his 
bill. 

[Enter  Billy.] 

Oh,  you've  just  come  in  time ;  ask  no  questions;  there's 
Mr.  Pry's  room :  if  you  get  him  out  of  the  house,  I'll  raise 
vour  wages :  if  you  do  not,  you  shall  go  yourself;  now  you 
know  the  terms.     [Exit.] 

Bil.  Then  it  is  either  you  or  myself,  Mr.  Pry ;  so  here 
goes. 

[As  Billy  is  running  toivanls  the  room,  he  sees  Pry,  ivith  his 
head  out  of  tJie  door.,  listening.     Entei-  Paul  Pry] 

Paul  Pry.  Hope  I  don't  intrude ;  I  say,  Billy,  who  is 
that  old  gentleman,  who  just  came  in  ? 

Bil.     Old  gentleman? — why,  there's  nobody  come  in. 

Paul.     Don't  fib,  Billy  ;    [  saw  him. 

Bil.  You  saw  him  ! — why,  how  could  you  see  him,  when 
there's  no  window  in  the  room  ? 

Paul.  I  always  guard  against  such  an  accident,  and 
carry  a  gimlet  with  me.  [Producing  one.]  Nothing  like 
making  a  little  hole  in  the  wainscot. 

Bil.     Why,  surely,  you  haven't — 

Paul.  It  has  been  a  fixed  principle  of  my  life,  Billy, 
never  to  take  a  lodging  or  a  house  with  a  brick  wall  to  it. 
I  say,  tell  me   who  is  he  ? 

Bil.  [Aside.]  Well.  I'll  tell  him  something.  Why,  if 
you  must  know,  I  think  he's  an  army  lieutenant,  on  half 
pay. 

Paul.  An  army  lieutenant !  half  pay !  ah !  that  will 
never  afford  ribbons  and  white  feathers. 

Bil.  Now,  Mr.  Pry,  my  master  desires  me  to  say,  he 
can't  accommodate  you  any  longer:  your  apartment  is 
M'anted.  and  really,  Mr.  Pry,  you  can't  think  how  much 
you'll  oblige  me  by  going. 

Paul.  To  be  sure  Billy.  I  wouldn't  wish  to  intrude  for 
the  world — your  master's  doing  a  great  deal  of  business  in 
this  house — what  did  he  give  for  the  good  will  of  it? 

Tan.     [Without.]     Billy! 

Bil  There,  now,  I'm  called — and  I've  to  make  ready 
the  room  for  the  Freemasons  that  meet  to  nignt — they  that 
wouldn't  admit  you  into  their  society. 

Paul.     YeSj  I  know ;  they  thought  1  should  intrude. 


248  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUEti. 

Ta7t.     [Without.']     Billy! 

Bil     Now  you  must  go— good-by,    Mr.  Pry — I'm  called. 

Paul.     Oh,  good-by good  morning.     [Exit.\ 

Bil.     He's  gone !     I'm  coming,  sir      [Exit.] 
[Ree?iter  Paul  Pry.] 

Paul.  An  army  lieutenant !  Whocanitbe?  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  it's  Mrs.  Thomas's  husband ;  who,  she  says,  was 
killed  in  India!  If  it  should  be,  it  will  break  off  her  flirt- 
ing with  Mr.  Cinnamon,  the  grocer;  there's  pretty  doings  in 
that  quarter,  for  I  caught  the  rheumatism  watching  them  in 
a  frosty  night  last  winter  !  An  army  lieutenant ! '  Mrs. 
Thomas  has  a  daughter ;  I'lrjust  peep  through  the  key- 
hole, and  see  if  there's  a  family  likeness  between  them. 
[Goes  to  the  door  and  j»eeps.]  Bless  me!  why,  there  cer- 
tainly is  something  about  the  nose — oh !  he's  writing. 
[The  door  is  suddenly  ojyened  by  Oldbutton.^  %vho  discovers 
Paul.] 

Paul.  I  hope  I  don't  intrude — I  was  trying  to  find  my 
apartment. 

Mr.  Old.  Was  it  necessary  to  look  through  the  key-hole 
for  it,  sir  ? 

Paul.  I'mrathershort-sighted,  sir;  sadafliiction  !  my  poor 
mother  was  short  sighted,  sir  ;  in  fact,  it's  a  family  failing  ; 
all  the  Prys  are  obliged  to  look  close. 

Mr.  Old.  Whilst  I  sympathize  with  your  distresses,  sir, 
I  trust  to  be  exempt  from  the  impertinence  which  you  may 
attach  to  them. 

Paid.  Would  not  intrude  for  the  world,  sir.  What  may 
be  your  opinion,  sir,  of  the  present  state  of  the  kingdom  ? 
How  do  you  like  peace  ?  It  must  press  hard  upon  you  gen- 
tlemen of  the  army  ;  a  lieutenant's  half  pay  now  is  but  little 
to  make  both  ends  meet. 

Mr.  Old.     Sir  ! 

Paul  Especially  when  a  man's  benevolent  to  his  pooi 
relations.  Now,  sir.  perhaps  you  allow  something  out  of 
your  five-and-six  pence  a  day,  to  your  mother  or  maiden  sis- 
ter. Between  you  and  me,  I  must  tell  you  what  I  have 
learnt  here. 

Mr.  Old.  Between  you  and  me  sir,  I  must  tell  you  what 
t  have  learnt  in  India. 

Paul.  What,  have  you  been  in  India?  Wouldn't  in- 
trude an  observation  for  the  world  ;  but  I  thought  you  had 
a  yellowish  look  ;  something  of  an  orange-peeling  counte- 
nance.    You've  been  in  India?     Although   I'm    a   single 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  249 

man,  I  wouldn't  ask  an  improper  question  ;  but  is  it  true 
thar  the  blacks  employ  no  tailors  nor  milliners  ?  If  noi, 
what  do  they  do  to  keep  off  the  flies  ? 

Mr.  Old.  That  is  what  I  was  about  to  inform  you;  they 
carry  canes.  Now,  sir,  five  minutes'  conversation  with  you 
has  fully  convinced  me  that  there  are  flies  in  England  as  well 
as  in  India:  and  that  a  man  may  be  as  impertinently  in- 
quisitive at  Dover,  as  at  Bengal.  All  I  have  to  add  is — I 
carry  a  cane. 

Paul.  In  such  a  case,  I'm  the  last  to  intrude.  I've  only 
one  question  to  ask — Is  your  name  Thomas  1  whether 
you  have  a  wife?  how  old  she  is?  and  where  you  were 
married  ? 

Mr.  Old.  Well.  sir.  a  man  may  sometimes  play  with  a 
puppy,  as  well  as  kick  him  ;  and  if  it  will  afford  you  any 
satisfaction   learn  my  name  is  Thomas. 

Paul.  Oh  !  poor  Mr  Cinnamon  !  This  is  going  to  In- 
dia! Mr.  T  ,  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  that  somebody  here  has 
intruded  in  your  place — for  between  you  and  me — S^Oldhut- 
ton  surveys  him  contemptuously,  and  ivJiilst  Paul  is  talking^ 
Oldhutton  stalks  off.  Paul^  on  looking  round.]  Well,  it 
isn't  that  I  interfere  much  in  people's  concerns  ;  if  I  did,  how 
unhappy  I  could  make  that  man.  This  Freemason's  sign 
puzzles  me  ;  they  wouldn't  make  me  a  member ;  but  I  have 
slept  six  nights  in  the  next  room  to  them;  and.  thanks  to 
my  gimlet,  I  know  the  business.  There  was  Mr.  Smith, 
who  was  only  in  the  Gazette  last  week,  taking  his  brandy 
and  water  ;  he  can't  afford  that,  I  know.  Then  there  was 
Mr.  Hodgkins,  who  makes  his  poor  wife  and  children  live 
upon  baked  potatoes  six  days  out  of  the  week,  (for  I  know 
the  shop  where  they  are  cooked.)  calling,  like  a  lord,  for  a 
Welch  rarebit;  I  only  wish  his  creditors  could  see  him  :  but 
I  don't  trouble  my  head  with  these  matters  ;  if  I  did — eh  ! 
Why  there  is  one  of  the  young  Jones's  going  again  to  Mr. 
Notick,  the  pawnbroker's  ;  that's  the  third  time  this  week ; 
well,  I've  just  time  enough  to  run  to  Notick's,  and  see  what 
he's  brought,  before  I  go  to  inquire  at  the  post  office,  who  in 
the  town  has  letters      [Exit.] 


260  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

XIV.— FROM  THE  POOR  GENTLEMAN.— Co/»ta7t. 

FREDERICK SIR    ROBERT    BRAMBLE HUMPHREY     DOBBINS. 

Frederick.  Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  good  morning !  your  park 
is  nothing  but  beauty. 

Sir  R.  Who  bid  you  caper  over  my  beauty  ?  I  told 
you  to  stay  in  doors  till  I  got  up. 

Fred.     So  you  did,  but  I  entirely  forgot  it. 

Sir  R.     And  pray,  what  made  you  forget  it  ? 

Fred.     The  sun. 

Sir  R.  The  sun  !  he's  mad  !  you  mean  the  moon,- 1  be- 
lieve. 

Fred.  Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  you  don't  know  the  effect  of  a 
fine  spring  morning,  upon  a  fellow  just  arrived  from  Russia. 
The  day  looked  bright,  trees  budding,  birds  singmg,  the 
park  was  so  gay,  that  I  took  a  leap  out  of  your  old  balcony, 
made  your  deer  fly  before  me  like  the  wind,  and  chased 
them  all  around  the  park  to  get  an  appetite  for  breakfast, 
while  you  were  snoring  in  bed,  uncle. 

Sir  R.  Oh,  oh!  So  the  effect  of  English  sunshine  upon 
a  Russian,  is  to  make  him  jump  out  of  a  balcony  and  worry 
my  deer 

Fred.     I  confess  it  had  that  influence  upon  me. 

Sir  R.  You  had  better  be  influenced  by  a  rich  old  uncle, 
unless  you  think  the  sun  likely  to  leave  you  a  fat  legacy. 

Fred.     I  hate  legacies. 

Sir  R.  That's  mighty  singular.  They  are  pretty  solid 
tokens  at  least. 

Fred.  Very  melancholy  tokens,  uncle  ;  they  are  posthu- 
mous dispatches,  affection  sends  to  gratitude,  to  inform  us 
we  have  lost  a  gracious  friend. 

Sir  R.     How  charmingly  the  dog  argues  ! 

Fred.  But  I  own  my  spirits  ran  away  with  me  this 
morning.  I  will  obey  you  better  in  future  ;  for  they  tell  me 
you  are  a  very  worthy,  good  sort  of  a  gentleman. 

Sir  R.  Now,  who  had  the  familiar  impudence  to  tell 
you  that. 

Fred.     Old  rusty,  there. 

Sir  R.     Why,  Humphrey,  you  didn't? 

Hum.     Yes,  but  I  did  though. 

Fred.  Yes,  he  did ;  and  on  that  score  I  shall  be  anxious 
to  show  you  obedience,  for  'tis  as  meritorious  to  attempt 
sharing  a  good  man's  heart  as  it  is  paltry  to  have  designs 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  251 

upon  a  rich  man's  money.  A  noble  nature  aims  its  atten- 
tions full  breast  high,  uncle ;  a  mean  mind  levels  its  dirty 
assiduities  at  the  pocket. 

Sir  R.  {S/iaking  him  by  the  hand.']  Jump  out  of  every 
window  I  have  in  the  house  ;  hunt  my  deer  into  high  fevers, 
my  fine  fellow !  Ay.  that's  right.  This  is  spunk  and  plain 
speaking.  Give  me  a  man  who  is  always  flinging  his  dis- 
sent to  my  doctrines  smack  in  my  teeth. 

Fred.     I  disagree  with  you  there,  uncle. 

Hum.     And  so  do  I. 

Fred.  You !  you  forward  puppy !  If  you  were  not  so 
old.  I'd  knock  you  down. 

Sir  R.  I'll  knock  you  down,  if  you  do.  I  won't  have 
my  servants  thumped  into  dumb  flattery. 

Hum.  Come,  you're  ruffled.  Let  us  go  to  the  business 
of  the  morning. 

Sir  R.  I  hate  the  business  of  the  morning.  Don't  you 
see  we  are  engaged  in  discussion.  I  tell  you,  I  hate  the 
business  of  the  morning. 

Hum.     No.  vou  don't. 

Sir  R.     Don't  I  ?     Why  not  ? 

Hum.     Because  it's  charity. 

Sir  R.  Pshaw!  Well,  we  must  not  neglect  the  business,  if 
there  be  any  distress  in  the  parish  ;  read  the  list,  Humphrey. 

Hum.  [  Taking  out  a  paper ^  and,  reading.]  "  Jonathan 
Huggins,  of  Muck  Mead,  is  put  in  prison  for  debt." 

Sir  R.  Why,  it  wa^i  only  last  week  that  Gripes  the  attor- 
ney, recovered  two  cottages  for  him  by  law,  worth  sixty  pounds. 

Hum.  Yes,  and  charged  a  hundred  for  his  trouble  ;  so 
seized  the  tottages  for  part  of  his  bill,  and  threw  Jonathan 
into  jail  for  the  remainder. 

Sir  R.  A  harpy  !  I  must  relieve  the  poor  fellow's  dis- 
tress. 

Fred.     And  I  must  kick  his  attorney. 

Hum.     [Reading.]     '•  The  curate's  horse  is  dead." 

Sir  R.     Pshaw  !     There's  no  distress  in  that. 

Hum.  Yes.  there  is ;  to  a  man  that  must  go  twenty 
miles  every  Sunday  to  preach  for  thirty  pounds  a  year. 

Sir  R.     Why  won't  the  vicar  give  him  another  nag? 

Hum.  Because  it's  cheaper  to  get  another  curate  already 
mounted. 

Sir  R.  Well,  send  him  the  black  pad  which  I  purchased 
last  Tuesday,  and  tell  him  to  work  him  as  long  as  he  lives. 
What  else  have  we  upon  the  list  1 


252  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Hum.  Something  out  of  the  commoD.  There's  one 
Lieutenant  Worthington,  a  disabled  officer  and  a  widower, 
come  to  lodge  at  farmer  Harrowby.'s  in  the  village ;  he  is,  it 
seems,  very  poor,  and  more  proud  than  poor,  and  more  hon- 
est than  proud. 

Sir  R.     And  so  he  sends  to  me  for  assistance. 

Huin.  He'd  see  you  hanged  first !  No,  he'd  sooner  die 
than  ask  you  or  any  man  for  a  shilling !  There's  his  daugh- 
ter, and  his  wife's  aunt,  and  an  old  corporal  that  served  in 
the  wars  with  him  ;  he  keeps  them  all  upon  his  half  pay. 

Sir  R.     Starves  them  all,  I'm  afraid,  Humphrey. 

Fred.     \^Going.'\     Good  morning,  uncle. 

Sir  R.     You  rogue,  where  are  you  running  now? 

Fred.     To  talk  with  lieutenant  Worthington. 

Sir  R.     And  what  may  you  be  going  to  say  to  him  ? 

Fred  I  can't  tell  till  f  encounter  him  :  and  then,  uncle, 
when  T  have  an  old  gentleman  by  the  hand,  who  has  been 
disabled  in  his  country's  service,  and  is  struggling  to  sup- 
port his  motherless  child,  a  poor  relation,  and  a  faithful 
servant  in  honorable  indigence,  impulse  will  supply  me  with 
words  to  express  my  sentiments. 

Sir  R.  Stop,  you  rogue ;  I  must  be  before  you  in  this 
business. 

Fred.  That  depends  on  who  can  run  fastest ;  so,  start 
fair,  and  uncle,  here  goes.     [Runs  out.^^ 

Sir  R.  Stop,  stop  ;  why,  Frederick — a  jackanapes  to  take 
my  department  out  of  my  hands.  I'll  disinherit  the  dog  for 
his  assurance. 

Hu7n.     No,  you  won't. 

Sir  R.  Won't  1 1  Hang  me  if  I — but  we'll  argue  that 
point  as  we  go ;  so  come  along,  Humphrey. 


Calel.    I  thought  I'd  como  to  something  at  \sai.—He  would  he  a  Soldier 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  233 


XV.— FROM  THE  S\Y ORB.— Bergmn. 

LORD  ONS3URG AUGUSTUS,  HIS  SON HENRIETTA,  HIS  DAUGH- 
TER  FRANK  RAYNTON,  WILLIAM  RAYNTON,  EDWARD  DUD- 
LEY,   CHARLES    DUDLEY,    FRIENDS    OF    AUGUSTUS CRAPE,    A 

SERVANT  TO  LORD  ONSBURG. 

Scene  1. — The  apartment  of  Augustus, 

Augustus.  Aha!  this  is  my  birthday  !  They  did  well  to 
tell  rae,  otherwise  I  should  never  have  thought  of  it.  Well, 
it  will  bring  me  some  new  present  from  papa.  But,  let's 
see,  what  will  he  give  me?  Crape  had  something  under  his 
coat  when  he  went  into  papa's  roomr  He  would  not  let  me 
go  in  with  him.  Ah  !  if  I  were  not  obliged  to  appear  a  lit- 
tle more  sedate  than  usual,  I  should  have  forced  him  to  shovir 
me  what  he  was  carrying.  But  hist !  I  shall  soon  know  it. 
Here  comes  my  papa. 
[Enter  Lord  Onsburg.  holding  in  Ids  hand  a  sword  and  belt.'] 

Lord  Onsburg.  Ah  !  are  you  there,  Augustus  !  I  have 
already  wished  you  joy  of  your  birthday ;  but  that  is  not 
enough,  is  it? 

Aug.  Oh!  papa —but  what  have  you  in  your  hand, 
there  ^ 

Lord  O.  Something  that  I  fear  will  not  become  you 
well.     A  sword — look  ye. 

Aug.  What!  is  it  for  me?  Oh  I  give  it  to  me,  dear 
papa;  I  will  be  so  good  and  so  diligent  for  the  future — 
-  Lord  O.  Ah !  if  I  thought  that !  But  do  you  know 
that  a  sword  requires  a  man  ?  That  he  must  be  no  longer 
a  child  who  wears  one,  but  should  conduct  himself  with 
circumspection  and  decency ;  and,  in  short,  that  it  is  not 
the  sword  that  adorns  the  man,  but  the  man  who  adorns  the 
sword. 

Aug.  Oh  I  never  fear  me.  I  shall  adorn  mine,  I  war- 
rant; and  I'll  have  nothing  to  say  to  those  mean  persons — 

Lord  O.     Whom  do  you  call  those  mean  persons? 

Aug.  I  mean  those  who  cannot  wear  a  sword — those 
who  are  not  of  the  nobility,  as  you  and  I  are. 

Lord  O.     For  my   part,  I   know   no  mean  persons  but 
those  who  have  a  wrong  way  of  thinking,  and  a  worse  way 
of  conducting  themselves ;  who  are  disobedient  to  their  pa- 
rents— rude  and  unmannerly  to  others:  so  that  T  see  many 
2^ 


254  "^Trw  school  dialogues. 

mean  persons  among  the  nobility,  and  many  noble  among 
those  whom  you  call  mean. 

Aug.     Yes,  I  think  in  the  same  manner. 

Lord  O.  What  were  you  saying,  then,  just  now,  of  wear- 
ing a  sword  ?  Do  you  think  that  the  real  advantages  of  no 
bility  consist  in  such  fopperies  ]  They  serve  to  distinguish 
ranks,  because  it  is  necessary  that  ranks  should  be  distin- 
guished in  the  world.  But  the  most  elevated  rank  does  only 
add  more  disgrace  to  the  man  unworthy  to  fill  it 

Aug.  So  I  believe,  papa.  But  it  will  be  no  disgrace  to 
me  to  have  a  sword,  and  to  wear  it. 

Lord  O.  No.  I  mean  that  you  will  render  yourself  wor- 
thy of  this  distinction  no  otherwise  than  by  your  good  be- 
havior.    Here  is  your  sword,  but  remember  — 

Aug.     Oh!  yes,  papa.     You  shall  see  !     [He  endeavors  to 
put  the  sword  by  his  side.,  hut  cannot.    Lord  Onsburg  helps 
him  to  buckle  it  on.'] 
,  Lord  O.     Eh  !  why,  it  does  not  sit  so  ill. 

Aug.     Does  it  now  ?     Oh  !  I  knew  that. 

Lord  O.  It  becomes  you  surprisingly.  But  above  all 
things,  remember  what  I  told  you.  Good-by  !  [  Goings 
he  returns.']  I  had  forgot ;  I  have  just  sent  for  a  little  par- 
ty of  your  friends,  to  spend  the  day  with  you.  Observe  to  be- 
have yourself  suitably. 

A  ug.  Yes,  papa.  [He  struts  up  and  down  the  room.,  and 
now  and  then  looks  back  to  sec  if  his  sword  is  behind  him.] 
This  is  fine !  This  is  being  something  like  a  gentleman  ! 
Let  any  of  your  citizens  come  in  my  way  now.  No  more 
familiarity,  if  they  do  not  wear  a  sword  :  and  if  they  take  it 
amiss — aha  !  out  with  my  rapier.  But  hold!  let  us  first  see 
if  it  has  a  good  blade.  [Draiving  his  sword  and  using  furious 
gestures.]  What!  does  that  tradesman  mean  to  affront  me  ? 
One  —two  !  Ah  !  you  defend  yourself,  do  you  ?  Die,  scoun- 
drel ! 

[Enter  Henrietta^ 

Henrietta.  [Who  screams  on  hearing  the  last  words.] 
Bless  me  !     Augustus,  are  you  mad? 

Aug.     Is  it  you,  sister  ? 

Hen.  Yes,  you  see  it  is.  But  what  do  you  do  with  that 
instrument  %     [Pointing  to  the  sivord.] 

Aug.     Do  with  it?  what  a  gentleman  should  do. 

Hen.  And  who  is  he  you  are  going  to  send  out  of  the 
world  ? 

Aus.     The  first  who  shall  dare  to  take  the  wall  of  me. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  255 

Hen.  I  see  there  are  many  lives'  in  danger.  And  if  1 
should  happen  to  be  the  person —    * 

Aug.  You  !  I  would  not  advise  you  I  wear  a  sword 
now.  you  see.     Papa  made  me  a  present  of  it. 

Hen.     I  suppose  to  go  and  kill  people,  right  or  wrong. 

Aug.  Am  not  I  the  honorable  ?  If  they  do  not  give  me  the 
respect  due,  smack,  a  box  on  the  ear.  And.  if  your  little 
commoner  will  be  impertinent — sword  in  hand — [Going  to 
draw  it.]  i 

Hen.  Oh  !  leave  it  in  quiet  brother.  And,  lest  I  should 
run  the  risk  of  affronting  you  unknowingly,  I  wish  to^be  in- 
formed what  the  respect  is  that  you  demand. 

Aug.  You  shall  soon  see.  My  father  has  just  sent  for 
some  of  my  young  acquaintance.  If  those  little  puppies  do 
not  behave  themselves  respectfully,  you  shall  see  how  I  will 
manage. 

Hen.  Very  well ;  but  I  ask  you  what  we  must  do,  to  be- 
have ourselves  respectfully  toward  you  ? 

Aug.  In  the  first  place,  I  insist  upon  a  low  bow — very 
low. 

He7t.  [  With  an  affected  gravity  tnaJcing  him  a  low  cour- 
tesy.'] Your  lordship's  most  humble  servant.  Was  that 
well? 

Aug.     No  joking,  Henrietta,  if  you  please  ;  or  else — 

Hen.  Nay,  I  am  quite  serious,  I  assure  you.  We  must 
take  care  to  know  and  perform  our  duty  to  respectable  per- 
sons. It  would  not  be  amiss  to  inform  your  little  friends, 
too. 

Aug.  Oh  !  I  will  have  some  sport  with  those  fellows ; 
give  one  a  pull,  another  a  pinch,  and  play  all  sorts  of  tricks 
on  them. 

Hen.  Those,  I  take  it,  are  some  of  the  duties  of  a  gentle- 
man who  wears  a  sword  ;  but  if  those  fellows  should  not 
like  the  sport,  and  return  it  on  the  gentleman's  ears — 

Aug.  What !  low,  vulgar  blood  ?  No  ;  they  have  neither 
hearts  nor  swords. 

Hen.  Really,  papa  could  not  have  given  you  a  more  use- 
ful present.  He  saw  plainly  what  a  hero  was  concealed  in 
the  person  of  his  son,  and  that  he  wanted  but  a  sword,  to 
show  him  in  his  proper  light. 

Aug.  Hark  ye,  sister,  it  is  my  birthday:  we  must  di- 
vert ourselves.  However,  you  will  not  say  anything  of  it  to 
papa. 

Hen.     Why  not  1  he  would  not  have  given  you  a  sword. 


256  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

if  he  did  not  expect  some  exploit  of  this  sort,  from  a  gentle- 
man newly  equipped.  *  Would  he  have  advised  you  other- 
wise ? 

Aifg.  Certainly !  you  know  that  he  is  always  preaching 
to  me. 

Hen.     What  has  he  been  preaching  to  you  ? 

Azig.  Preaching  !  why,  he  said  that  I  should  adorn  my 
sword,  and  not  my  sword  me. 

Hen.  In  that  case,  you  understand  him  properly,  I  must 
say ;  to  adorn  one's  sword,  is  to  know  how  to  make  use  of 
it ;  and  you  are  willing  to  show  already  that  you  have  that 
knowledge. 

Aug.  Yery  well,  sister  ;  you  think  to  joke  ;  but  I  would 
have  you  to  know,  madam — 

Hen.  Oh !  I  know  extremely  well,  all  that  you  can  tell 
me ;  but  do  you  know  too,  that  there  is  one  principal  orna- 
ment wanting  to  your  sword  ? 

Aug.  What  is  that  ?  [  Unbuckles  the  belt^  and  looks  all 
over  the  sword.']  I  do  not  see  that  there  is  the  least  thing 
wanting. 

Hen.  Really,  you  are  a  very  clever  swordsman.  But  a 
sword-knot  now  !  Ah  !  how  a  blue  and  silver  knot  would 
dangle  from  that  hilt ! 

Aug.  You  are  right,  Henrietta.  Hark  ye!  you  have  a 
whole  band-box  full  of  ribbons,  in  your  room  ;  so  — 

Hen.  I  was  thinking  of  it ;  provided  that  you  do  not  give 
me  a  specimen  of  your  fencing,  or  lay  your  blade  about  me 
in  return. 

Aug.  Nonsense !  here  is  my  hand,  that  is  enough  ;  you 
have  nothing  to  fear.  But  quick,  a  handsome  knot !  when 
my  little  party  comes,  they  shall  see  me  in  all  my  grandeur. 

Hen.     Give  it  to  me,  then. 

A7ig.  [  Giving  her  the  sword.]  There,  make  haste  I  you 
will  leave  it  in  my  room,  on  the  table,  that  I  may  find  it 
when  I  want  it. 

Hen.     Depend  on  me. 

[Enter  Crape.] 

Crape.  The  two  Master  Dudleys,  and  the  Master  Rayn- 
tons,  are  below. 

Aug.  Well!  cannot  they  come  up?  Must  I  go  to  re- 
ceive them  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  ? 

Crape.  My  lady  ordered  me  to  tell  you  to  come  and  meet 
them 

Aug.     No,  no — it  is  better  to  wait  for  them  here. 


OOMIO    AND    AMUSING.  257 

Tha.  Nay,  but  since  mamma  desires  that  you  will  go 
down — 

Aug.  Indeed,  they  are  worth  all  that  ceremony  !  Well, 
I  shall  go  directly.  Come,  what  are  you  doing  ?  Will  this 
make  my  sword-knot  ?  Go,  run.  and  let  me  find  it  on  my 
table,  properly  done.  Do  you  hear?  [Exeunt  Augustus 
and  Crape'l 

Hen.  The  little  insolent !  in  what  a  tone  he  speaks  to 
me  !  Luckily,  I  have  the  sword.  A  proper  instrument,  in- 
deed, in  the  hands  of  so  quarrelsome  a  boy  !  Yes,  yes,  stay 
till  1  return  it  to  you.  My  papa  does  not  know  you  so  well 
as  I  do.  But  he  must  be  told — ah  !  here  he  is. 
{Enter  Lord  Onsburg.'] 

Hen.  ■  You  are  come  in  good  time,  papa.  I  was  going  to 
you. 

Lord  O.  What  have  you,  then,  of  so  much  consequence, 
to  tell  me  ?     But  what  do  you  do  with  your  brother's  sword  1 

Hen.  I  have  promised  him  to  put  a  handsome  knot  to  it ; 
but  it  was  only  to  get  this  dangerous  weapon  out  of  his  hands. 
Do  not  give  it  to  him  again,  whatever  you  do. 

Lord  O.  Why  should  I  take  back  a  present  I  have  given 
him? 

He7i.  At  least,  be  so  good  as  to  keep  it  until  he  becomes 
more  peaceable.  I  just  now  found  him  all  alone,  laying 
about  him  like  Don  Quixote,  and  threatening  to  make  his 
first  trial  of  fencing  upon  his  companions  that  come  to  see 
him. 

Lord  O.  The  little  quarreler  !  If  he  will  use  it  for  his 
first  exploits,  they  shall  not  turn  out  to  his  honor,  I  promise 
you.     Give  me  the  sword. 

Hen.  [  Giving  him  the  sivord.]  There,  sir,  I  hear  him 
on  the  stairs. 

Lord  O.  Run,  make  his  knot,  and  bring  it  to  me  when 
it  is  ready.     [They  go  out.'} 


Scene  2. 

[Enter  Augustus,  Edward  and   Charles  LvAley,  Frank 

and  William  Raynton. — Augustus  enters  first,  with  his 

hat  on  ;  tJie  others  folloiv  him,  uneovered.} 

Edward.  [Aside  to  FrG,7ik.\  This  is  a  very  polite  recep- 
tion. 

Frank.  [Aside  to  Edward.']  I  suppose  it  is  the  fashion 
Q  2i* 


258  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

now  to  receive  companj'^  with  one's  hat  on,  and  to  walk 
before  them  into  one's  own  house. 

Aug.     What  are  you  mumbling  there? 

Ed.     Nothing,  Mr.  Onsburg  ;  nothing. 

Aug.     Is  it  something  that  I  should  not  hear  ? 

Frank.     Perhaps  it  may  be. 

Aug.     Now  I  insist  upon  knowing  it. 

Frank.     When  you  have  a  right  to  demand  it. 

Ed.  Softly,  Raynton — it  does  not  become  us  in  a  strange 
house  — 

Frank.  It  is  still  less  becoming  to  be  impolite  in  one's 
own  house. 

Aug.  {Haughtily?^  Impolite!  I  impolite!  Is  it  be- 
cause I  walked  before  you? 

Frank.  That  is  the  very  reason.  Whenever  we  have 
the  honor  to  receive  your  visits,  or  those  of  any  other  person, 
we  never  take  the  precedence. 

Aug.     You  only  do  your  duty.     But  from  you  to  me — 

Frank.     What,  then,  from  you  to  me  ?  — 

Aug      Are  ^  ou  noble  ? 

Frank.  \To  the  two  'Dudleys  and  his  brother.']  Let  us 
leave  him  to  himself,  with  his  nobility,  if  you  will  take  my 
advice. 

Ed.  Fie!  Mr.  Onsburg!  if  you  think  it  beneath  your 
dignity  to  keep  company  with  us,  why  invite  us  here?  We 
did  not  ask  that  honor. 

Aug.     It  was  not  I  who  invited  you  ;  it  was  my  papa. 

Frank.  Then  we  will  go  to  my  lord  and  thank  him  for 
his  civility.  At  the  same  time  we  shall  let  him  know  that 
his  son  thinks  it  a  dishonor  to  receive  us.     Come,  brother. 

Aug.  [Stojyping  him.']  You  cannot  take  a  joke.  Master 
Raynton  Why,  I  am  very  happy  to  see  you.  It  was  to 
do  me  a  pleasure  that  papa  invited  you  for  this  is  my  birth- 
day.    I  beg  you  will  stay  with  me. 

Frank.  This  is  another  affair.  But  be  more  polite 
for  the  future.  Though  I  have  not  a  title  as  you  have, 
yet  I  will  not  suffer  any  one  to  offend  me  without  resent- 
ing it. 

Ed.     Be  quiet,  Baynton  ;  we  should  be  good  friends. 

Charles.     This  is  your  birthday,  then,  Mr.  Onsburg? 

Ed.     I  wish  you  many  happy  returns  of  it 

Frank.  So  do  I,  sir;  and  all  manner  of  prosperity, 
[aside.]  and  particularly  that  you  may  grow  a  little  more 
polite. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  269 

IVtllmm.  I  suppose  you  have  had  several  handsome 
presents. 

Aug.     Oh !  of  course. 

Chalks.  A  great  many  cakes  and  sweetmeats,  no 
doubt? 

Aug.  Ha  !  ha !  cakes  !  that  would  be  pretty,  indeed.  I 
have  them  every  day. 

Wil.  Ah  !  then  I'll  wager,  it  is  in  money.  Two  or 
three  crowns  ?  eh  ! 

Aug.  [Disdainfully.]  Something  better,  and  which  I 
alone,  of  all  here — yes,  I  alone,  have  a  right  to  wear. 
\^Frank  and  Edward  talk  aside.] 

Wil.  If  I  had  what  has  been  given  to  you,  I  could  wear 
it  as  well  as  another,  perhaps. 

Aug.  [Looking  at  him  with  an  air  of  contempt.  Poor 
creature  !  [  To  tJie  two  elder  brothers.]  What,  are  you  both 
whispering  there  again  !  I  think  you  should  assist  to  amuse 
me. 

Ed.     Only  furnish  us  with  the  means. 

Frank.  He  who  receives  friends  should  study  their  amuse 
m.nt. 

Aug.     What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Raynton  ? 
[Enter  Henrietta,  bringing  a j^late^  ivith  cakes] 

Hen.    Your  servant,  gentlemen — I  am  glad  to  see  you  well. 

Frank.     Much  at  your  service,  miss.     [Bowing  to  her.] 

Ed.     We  are  happy  to  see  you,  miss,  among  our  party. 

Hen.  Sir,  you  are  very  obliging.  [To  Augustus.] 
Brother,  mamma  has  sent  you  this,  to  entertain  your  friends, 
until  the  chocolate  is  ready.  Crape  will  bring  it  up  pres 
ently,  and  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  helping  you. 

Frank.     Miss,  you  will  do  us  a  great  deal  of  honor. 

Aug.  We  do  not  want  you  here  !  But  now  I  think  of 
it,  my  sword-knot ! 

Hen.  You  will  find  the  sword  and  the  knot  in  your 
room.     Good-bye,  gentlemen,  until  I  see  you  again. 

Frank.  Shall  we  soon  have  the  favor  of  your  company, 
miss? 

Hen.     I  am  going  to  ask  mamma's  leave.     [Exit.] 

Aug.  [Sitting  down]  Come,  take  chairs  and  sit  down, 
[They  look  at  each  other,  and  sit  down  without  speaking. 
Augustus  helps  iJie  two  younger,  and  then  himself  .,  so  plen- 
tifully that  nothing  remains  for  the  two  elder.]  Stop  a  mo- 
ment 1     They  will  bring  in  more,  and  then  I'll  give  you 


260  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Frank.     Oh  !  no,  we  do  not  desire  it. 

Aug.     Oh  !   with  all  my  heart. 

Fd.     If  this  be  the  politeness  of  a  young  nobleman — 

Aug.  Is  it  with  such  as  you,  that  one  must  stand  upon 
ceremony  %  I  told  you  before,  that  they  will  bring  us  up 
something  else.  You  may  take  it  when  it  comes,  or  not 
take  it ;  you  understand  that? 

Frank.  Yes,  that  is  plain  enough :  and  we  see  plainly, 
too,  in  what  company  we  are. 

Fd.  Are  you  going  to  begin  your  quarrels  again?  Mr. 
Onsburg,  Raynton.  fie  !     [Augustus  rises ;  all  the  rest  also^ 

Aug.  [Going  up  to  Frank.']  In  what  company  are 
you,  then,  my  little  cit? 

Frank.  [Firmly^  With  a  young  nobleman  who  is  very 
rude  and  very  impudent — who  values  himself  more  than  he 
ought — and  who  does  not  know  how  well-bred  people  should 
behave  one  to  the  other. 

Fd.     We  are  all  of  the  same  opinion. 

Aug.  I  rude  and  impudent  ?  Tell  me  so,  who  am  a  gen- 
tleman ! 

Frank.  Yes,  I  say  it  again — very  rude  and  very  impu- 
dent— though  you  were  a  duke,  though  you  were  a  prince. 

Aug.  [Striking  him.']  I'll  teach  you  to  whom  you  are 
talking.  [Frank  goes  to  lay  hold  on  him.  Augustus  slips 
hack,  goes  out.  and  shuts  the  door.  \ 

Ed.  Bless  me,  Raynton,  what  have  you  done  ?  He  will 
go  to  his  father,  a  d  tell  him  a  thousand  stories.  What  will 
he  think  of  us  ? 

Fra/nk.  .His  father  is  a  man  of  honor.  I  will  go  to  him. 
if  Augustus  does  not.  He  certainly  has  not  invited  us  here 
to  be  ill-treated  by  his  son. 

Charles.  He  will  send  us  home,  and  make  a  complaint 
against  us. 

Wil.  No — my  brother  behaved  himself  properly.  My 
papa  will  approve  what  he  has  done,  when  we  tell  him  the 
whole.  He  does  not  understand  having  his  children  il.- 
used. 

Frank.     Come  with  me.     Let  us  all  go  and  find  Lord 
Onsburg. 
[Augustus   enters^   with   his   sivord   undrawn.       Tlie   two 

younger  hoys  run,  one  in  a  corner,  and  the  other  behind 

an  arm-chair.  .  Frank  and  Edivard  stand  Jinn.] 

Aug.  [Going  7cp  to  Frank.]  Now  I'll  teach  you,  you 
little  insolent.     [Draws,  and  instead  of  a  hlade,  finds  a  long 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  261 

turkey's  feather.     He  stops  short  in  confusion.     The  little 
oties  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  come  up.] 

Frank.     Come  on  !  let  us  see  the  temper  of  your  sword  ! 

Ed.  Do  not  add  to  his  confusion.  He  only  deserves 
contempt. 

Wil  Aha !  This  was  it,  then,  that  you  alone  had  a 
right  to  wear. 

Charles.  He  will  not  do  any  terrible  .harm  to  anybody 
with  that  terrible  weapon. 

Frank.  I  could  punish  you  now  for  your  rudeness,  but  I 
should  blush  to  take  such  a  revenge. 

Ed.  He  is  no  longer  worthy  of  our  company.  Let  us 
all  leave  him  to  himself 

Wil.  Good-bye  to  you,  Mr.  Knight  of  the  turkey's 
feather. 

Charles.  We  shall  not  come  here  again  until  you  be  dis- 
armed, for  you  are  too  terrible  now.  \Jis  they  are  going., 
Frank  stops  them.'] 

Frank.  Let  us  stay  and  give  an  account  of  our  behavior 
to  his  father,  otherwise  appearances  will  be  against  us. 

Ed.     You  are  right.     What  would  he  think  of  us,  were 
we  to  leave  his  house  thus,  without  seeing  him? 
[^Enter  Lord  Onsburg.      They  all  put  on  an  air  of  respect 

at  the  entrance  of  Lord  Onsburg.     Augustus  goes  aside^ 

and  cries  for  spite.] 

Lord  O.  [To  Augustus,  looking  at  him  loith  indigna- 
tion.] Well,  sir,  you  have  honored  your  sword  nobly — 
shame  !  sir,  shame  !     [Augustus  sobs  but  cannot  sjieak.] 

Frank.  My  lord,  you  will  pardon  this  disturbance  that 
appears  among  us.  It  was  not  caused  by  us.  From  the 
first  moment  of  our  coming,  Mr.  Onsburg  received  us  so 
ill — 

Lord  O  Do  not  be  uneasy,  my  dear  little  friend.  I 
know  all.  I  was  in  the  next  room,  and  heard,  from  the  be- 
ginning, my  son's  unbecoming  discourse.  He  is  the  more 
blamable,  as  he  had  just  been  making  me  the  fairest  prom- 
ises. I  have  suspected  his  impertinence  for  a  long  time,  but 
I  wished  to  see  myself  how  far  he  was  capable  of  carrying 
it;  and,  for  fear  of  mischief  I  put  a  blade  to  his  sword,  that, 
as  you  see,  will  not  spill  much  blood.  [The  children  burst 
out  a  laughing.  | 

Frank.  Excuse  the  freedom  my  lord,  that  I  took  m  tell- 
ing him  the  truth  a  little  bluntly. 

Lord  O.     I  rather  owe  you  my  thanks  for  it.      You  are 


202  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

an  excellent  young  gentleman,  and  deserve,  much  better 
than  he  does,  to  wear  this  badge  of  honor.  As  a  token  of 
my  esteem  and  acknowledgment,  accept  this  sword  ;  but  I 
will  first  put  a  blade  to  it  that  may  be  worthy  of  you. 

Frank.  Your  lordship  is  too  good  ;  but  allow  us  to  with- 
draw. Our  company  may  not  be  agreeable  to  Mr.  Onsburg, 
to-day. 

Lord  O.  No,  no,  my  dear  boys,  you  shall  stay.  My  son's 
presence  shall  not  disturb  your  pleasure.  You  may  divert 
j'ourselves  together,  and  my  daughter  shall  take  care  to 
provide  you  with  whatever  may  amuse  you.  Come  v^ith 
me  into  another  apartment.  As  for  you.  sir,  \^To  Augui^tMS  \ 
do  not  offer  to  stir  from  this  place.  You  may  celebrate 
your  birthday  here  all  alone.  You  shall  never  wear  a  sword 
again  until  you  deserve  one.  [Ea:£unt.\ 


XVI— MARRIAGE  OF  A  DAUGHTER.— O'^nen. 

GRUB MRS.    GRUB. 

Grub.  My  dear,  there's  rare  news  from  the  Alley,  India 
stock  is  mounting  every  minute. 

Mrs.  Grub.     I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  my  dear. 

Grub.  Yes  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  hear  of  it. 
1  have  just  sent  Consol  to  the  Alley  to  see  how  matters  go 
— I  should  have  gone  myself,  but  I  wanted  to  open  an  affair 
of  some  importance  to  you — 

Mrs.  G.  Ay.  ay,  you  have  always  some  affair  of  great 
importance. 

Grub.  Nay  this  is  one — I  h§,ve  been  thinking,  my  dear, 
that  it  is  high  time  we  had  fixed  our  daughter ;  'tis  high 
time  that  Emily  were  married. 

Mrs.  G.  You  think  so,  do  you?  I  have  thought  so 
ninny  a  time  these  three  years  :  and  so  has  Emily  too  I 
fancy.     I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about  the  same  subject. 

Grub.  You  did  ?  Well  I  declare  that's  pat  enough  ;  he. 
he,  he  ! — I  vow  and  protest  I'm  pleased  at  this — why  our 
inclinations  do  seldom  jump  together. 

Mrs.  G.  Jump  quotha!  No  I  should  wonder  if  they 
did,  and  how  comes  it  to  pass  now  ?     What !     1  suppose 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  203 

you  have  been  employing  some  of  your  brokers,  as  usual ; 
or  perhaps  advertising,  as  you  used  to  do  ;  but  I  expect  to 
hear  no  more  of  these  tricks,  now  that  we  are  come  to  this 
end  of  the  town. 

G^'ub.  No,  no,  my  dear,  this  is  no  such  matter.  The  ger- 
tleraan  I  intend — 

Mrs.  G.     You  intend  ! 

Grub.     Yes,  1  intend. 

Mrs.  G.  You  intend  !  What!  do  you  presume  to  dispose 
of  my  child  without  my  consent?  Mind  your  money  mat- 
ters, Mr.  Grub  :  look  at  your  buHs,  and  your  bears,  and  your 
lame  ducks^  and  take  care  they  don't  make  you  waddle  out 
of  the  Alley,  as  the  saying  is  : — but  leave  to  me  the  man- 
agement of  my  child. — What!  Things  are  come  to  a  fine 
pass  indeed  !  I  suppose  you  intend  to  marry  the  poor  inno- 
cent to  one  of  your  city  cronies,  your  factors,  your  supercar- 
goes, packers  or  dry  salters  ;  but  I'll  have  none  of  them.  Mr. 
Grub,  no,  I'll  have  none  of  them  It  shall  never  be  said, 
that,  after  coming  to  this  end  of  the  town,  the  great  Miss 
Grub  was  forced  to  trudge  into  the  city  again  for  a  husband. 

Grvb.     Why,  you  are  mad,  Mrs.  Grub. 

Mrs.  G.  No,  you  shall  find  I  am  not  mad,  Mr.  Grub  ; — 
that  I  know  how  to  dispose  of  my  child.  Mr.  Grub. — What ! 
did  my  poor  dear  brother  leave  his  fortune  to  me  and  my 
child,  and  shall  she  now  be  disposed  of  without  consulting 
me? 

Gi-ub.  Why,  you  are  mad.  certainly !  If  you  will  but 
hear  me,  you  shall  be  consulted. — Have  I  not  always  con- 
sulted you  I — To  please  you,  was  I  not  inclined  to  marry 
my  daughter  to  a  lord  ?  and  has  she  not  been  hawked  about, 
till  all  the  peerage  of  the  three  kingdoms  turn  up  their  noses 
at  you  and  your  daughter  ?  Did  I  not  treat  with  my  Lord 
Spindle,  my  Lord  Thoughtless,  and  my  Lord  Manikin  ?  and 
did  we  not  agree,  for  the  first  time  in  our  lives  that  it  would 
be  better  to  find  out  a  commoner  for  her  as  the  people  of 
quality  now  a-days  marry  for  only  a  winter  or  so  ? 

Mrs.  G.  Very  well,  we  did  so  ;  and  who.  pray,  is  the 
proper  person  to  find  out  a  match  for  her  ?  Who,  but  her 
mother,  Mr.  Grub? — who  goes  into  company  with  no  other 
view.  Mr  Grub: — who  flatters  herself  she  is  no  contempti- 
ble judge  of  mankind  Mr.  Grub  : — yes.  Mr  Grub,  as  good  a 
judge  as  any  woman  on  earth,  Mr.  Grub. 

Grub.     That  I  believe,  Mrs.  Grub. 

Mrs.  G.     Who  then  but  me  should  have  the  disposal  of 


264  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

her  ?  and  very  well  I  have  disposed  of  her.  I  have  got  her 
a  husband  in  my  eye. 

Grub.     You  got  her  a  husband  ? 

Mrs.  G.     Yes.  I  have  got  her  a  husband. 

Grub.  No.  no,  no,  Mrs.  Grub,  that  will  never  do. — What ! 
have  I  been  toiling  upwards  of  fifty  years, — up  early,  down 
late,  shopkeeper  and  housekeeper,  made  a  great  forttme,  which 
I  could  never  find  in  my  heart  to  enjoy — and  now,  when  all 
the  comfort  I  have  in  the  world,  the  settlement  of  my  child, 
is  in  agitation,  shall  I  not  speak  ?  shall  I  not  have  leave  to 
approve  of  her  husband? 

Mrs.  G.  Heyday  !  You  are  getting  into  your  tantrums, 
I  see. 

Grub.  What !  did  I  not  leave  the  city,  every  friend  in 
the  world  with  whom  I  used  to  pass  an  evening  ?  Did  I 
not,  to  please  you,  take  this  house  here  ?  Nay,  did  I  not 
make  a  fool  of  myself,  by  gomg  to  learn  to  come  in  and  go 
out  of  a  room,  with  the  grown  gentlemen  in  Cow-lane  ?  Did 
I  not  put  on  a  sword,  too.  at  your  desire  ?  and  had  I  not  like 
to  have  broken  my  neck  down  stairs,  by  its  getting  between 
my  legs,  at  that  diabolical  Lady  what-d'ye-call-her's  rout  ? 
and  did  not  all  the  footmen  and  chairmen  laugh  at  me? 

Mrs.  G.  And  well  thev  might,  truly.  An  obstinate  old 
fool— 

Grub.  Ay,  ay,  that  may  be  ;  but  I'll  have  my  own  way 
— I'll  give  my  daughter  to  the  man  I  like — I'll  have  no 
Sir  This  nor  Lcrrd  Tother — I'll  have  no  fellow  with  his 
waist  down  to  his  knees,  and  a  shirt  like  a  monkey's  jacket 
— with  a  coat  no  bigger  than  its  button,  his  shoe-buckles 
upon  his  toes,  and  cue  thicker  than  his  leg. 

Mrs.  G.  Why,  Mr.  Grub,  you  are  certainly  mad,  raving, 
distracted. — No,  the  man  I  propose — 

Grub.     And  the  man  I  propose  — 

Mrs.  G.  Is  a  young  gentleman  of  fortune,  discretion, 
parts,  sobriety,  and  connections. 

Gh-ub.  And  the  man  I  propose  is  a  gentleman  of  abilities, 
fine  fortune,  prudence,  temperance,  and  every  virtue. 

Mrs.  G.     And  his  name  is — 

Grub.     And  his  name  is  Bevil. 

Mrs    G.     Bevil! 

Grub.     Yes.     Bevil,  I  say.  and  a  very  pretty  name,  too. 

Mrs.  G      What  I  Mr.  Bevil  of  Lincolnshire  I 

Grub.     Yes.  Mr.  Bevil  of  Lincolnshire. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  265 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  my  dear  Mr.  Grub,  you  delight  me!  Mr. 
Bevil  is  the  very  man  I  meant. 

Grub.     Is  it  possible?     Why,  where  have  you  met  him"? 

Mrs.  G.  0,  at  several  places ;  but  particularly  at  Mrs. 
Matchem's  assemblies. 

G?'ud.  Indeed!  was  ever  anything- so  fortunate  ?  Didn't 
I  tell  you  that  our  inclinations  jumped ;  but  I  wonder  that 
he  never  told  me  that  he  was  acquainted  with  you. 

Mrs.  G.  Nay,  I  cannot  help  thinking  it  odd  that  he 
should  never  tell  me  he  had  met  with  you !  but  I  see  he  is 
a  prudent  man :  he  was  determined  to  be  liked  by  both  of 
us.     But  where  did  you  meet  with  him  ? 

Grub.  Why,  he  bought  some  stock  of  me,  and  so  we  be- 
came acquainted  ;  but  I  am  so  overjoyed, — I  scarce  know 
what  to  say.  My  dear  Mrs.  Grub,  let  us  send  for  the  child 
and  open  the  business  at  once  to  her. — I  am  so  overjoyed — 
who  would  have  thought  it  ?  Let  us  send  for  Emily — poor 
dear  soul,  she  little  thinks  how  happy  we  are  going  to  make 
her. 


XVIL— FROM  THE  RIV ALS.— Sheridan. 

SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE FAG ERRAND 

BOY. 

Scene  1. — Captain  Absolute's  Lodgings. 

[Enter  Fag  and  Sir  Anthony.] 
Fag.     Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  sir.     [Exit.] 
Capt.  A.     Sir  Anthony,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  here, 
and  looking  so  well !  your  sudden  arrival  at  Bath  made  me 
apprehensive  for  your  health. 

Sir  A.  Very  apprehensive,  I  dare  say,  Jack  What, 
you  are  recruiting  here,  hey  ? 

Capt.  A.     Yes,  sir.     I  am  on  duty. 

Sir  A.  Well,  Jack,  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  though  I  did 
not  expect  it,  for  I  was  going  to  write  to  you  on  a  little  mat- 
ter of  business.  Jack,  I  have  been  considering  that  I  grow 
old  and  infirm,  and  shall  probably  not  trouble  you  long. 

Caj^t.  A.  Pardon  me,  sir,  1  never  saw  you  look  more 
strong  and  hearty,  and  I  pray  fervently  that  you  may  con- 
tinue so. 

23 


266 


NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


Sir  A.  I  hope  your  prayers  may  be  heard,  with  all  my 
heart.  Well,  then,  Jack,  I  have  been  considering  that  1  am 
so  strong  and  hearty,  I  may  continue  to  plague  you  a  long 
time.  Now,  Jack,  I  am  sensible  that  the  income  of  your 
commission  and  what  I  have  hitherto  allowed  you,  is  but  a 
small  pittance  for  a  lad  of  your  spirit. 

Capt.  A.     Sir,  you  are  very  good. 

Sir  A.  And  it  is  my  wish,  while  yet  I  live,  to  have  my 
boy  make  some  figure  in  the  world.  I  have  resolved,  there- 
fore, to  fix  you  at  once  in  a  noble  independence. 

Capt.  A.  Sir,  your  kindness  overpowers  me.  Yet,  sir,  I 
presume  you  would  not  wish  me  to  quit  the  army  ? 

Sir  A.     Oh  !  that  shall  be  as  your  wife  chooses. 

Capt.  A.     My  wife,  sir  ? 

Sir  A.  Ay,  ay,  settle  that  between  you — settle  that  be- 
tween you, 

Capt.  A.     A  wife,  sir,  did  you  say  ? 

Sir  A.     Ay,  a  wife  :  why,  did  not  I  mention  that  before? 

Capt.  A.     Not  a  word  of  her,  sir. 

Sir  A.  Odd  so ;  I  mustn't  forget  her,  though.  Yes, 
Jack,  the  independence  1  was  talking  of,  is  by  a  marriage  ; 
the  fortune  is  saddled  with  a  wife  ;  but  I  suppose  that  makes 
no  difference  ? 

Cajjt.  A.     Sir,  sir  !  you  amaze  me  ! 


Sir  A.  Why,  what — what's  the  matter  with  the  fool  ? 
Just  now  you  were  all  gratitude  and  duty. 

Capt.  A.  I  was,  sir ;  you  talked  to  me  of  independence 
and  a  fortune,  but  not  a  word  of  a  wife. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  207 

Sir  A.  Why.  what  difference  does  that  make  ?  Odds 
life,  sir !  if  you  have  the  estate,  you  must  take  it  with  the 
live  stock  on  it,  as  it  stands. 

Capt.  A.     Pray,  sir,  who  is  the  lady  ? 

Si)'  A.  What's  that  to  you,  sir  ?  Come,  give  me  your 
promise  to  love  and  to  marry  her  directly. 

Cajjt.  A.  Sure,  sir,  that  is  not  very  reasonable,  to  sum- 
mon my  affections  for  a  lady  I  know  nothing  of 

Sir  A.  I  am  sure,  sir.  'tis  more  unreasonable  in  you  to 
object  to  a  lady  you  know  nothing  of 

Capt.  A.  You  must  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  tell  you,  once  for 
all.  that  in  this  point  I  cannot  obey  you. 

Sir  A.  Hark  ye,  Jack  :  I  have  heard  you  for  some  time 
with  patience — I  have  been  cool, — qu  te  cool ;  but  take 
care  ;  you  know  I  am  compliance  itself,  when  I  am  not 
thwarted ;  no  one  more  easily  led,  when  I  have  my  own 
way:   but  don't  put  me  in  a  frenzy. 

Cajjt.  A.  Sir,  I  must  repeat  it;  in  this  I  cannot  obey 
you. 

Sir  A.  Now,  hang  me,  if  ever  I  call  you  Jack  again 
while  I  live. 

Capt.  A.     Nay,  sir,  but  hear  me. 

Sir  A.  Sir,  I  won't  hear  a  word,  not  a  word !  not  one 
word !  So  give  me  your  promise  by  a  nod.and  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Jack — I  mean  dog— if  you  don't — 

Capt.  A.  What,  sir,  promise  to  link  myself  to  some 
mass  of  ugliness ! 

Sir  A.  Aye  !  sirrah  !  the  lady  shall  be  as  ugly  as  I 
choose  :  she  shall  have  a  hump  on  each  shoulder  ;  she  shall 
be  as  crooked  as  the  crescent ;  her  one  eye  shall  roll  like  the 
bull's  in  Cox's  museum ;  she  shall  have  a  skin  like  a  mum- 
my, and  the  beard  of  a  Jew.  She  shall  be  a'l  this,  sirrah  ! 
yet  I'll  make  you  ogle  her  all  day.  and  sit  up  all  night  to 
write  sonnets  on  her  beauty. 

Capt.  A.     This  is  reason  and  moderation  indeed ! 
.  Sir  A.     None   of  your  sneering,   puppy !   no  grinning, 
jackanapes ! 

Capt.  A.  Indeed,  sir,  I  was  never  in  a  worse  humor  for 
!!.irth  in  my  life. 

Sir  A.  'Tis  false  sir;  I  know  you  are  laughing  in  your 
sleeve ;  I  know  you'll  grin  when  I  am  gone  sirrah  ! 

Cajjt.  A.     Sir,  I  hope  I  know  my  duty  better. 

Sir  A.  None  of  your  passion,  ^ir  !  none  of  your  violence, 
if  you  pleait' !  it  won't  do  with  me,  I  promise  you. 


268  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Capt.  A.     Indeed,  sir,  I  was  never  cooler  in  my  life. 

Sir  A.  'Tis  a  confounded  lie !  I  know  you  are  in  a 
passion  in  your  heart;  I  know  you  are,  you  hypocritical 
young  dog ;   but  it  won't  do. 

Capt.  A.     Nay,  sir,  upon  my  word — 

Sir  A.  So  you  will  fly  out !  can't  you  be  cool,  like  me  \ 
What  good  can  passion  do  ?  Passion  is  of  no  service,  you 
impudent,  insolent,  overbearing  reprobate  !  There,  you  sneer 
again  !  don't  provoke  me  !  but  you  rely  upon  the  mildness 
of  my  temper,  you  do,  you  dog;  you  play  upon  the  meek- 
ness of  my  disposition !  yet  take  care ;  the  patience  of  a 
saint  may  be  overcome  at  last !  But  mark  !  I  give  you  six 
hours  and  a  half  to  consider  of  this:  if  you  then  agree, 
without  any  condition,  to  do  everything  on  earth  that  I 
choose,  why — confound  you  !  I  may  in  time  forgive  you, — 
if  not,  then  !  don't  enter  the  same  hemisphere  with  me ; 
don't  dare  to  breathe  the  same  air,  or  use  the  same  light 
with  me ;  but  get  an  atmosphere  and  a  sun  of  your  own  ! 
I'll  strip  you  of  your  commission ;  I'll  lodge  a  five-and- 
three  pence  in  the  hands  of  trustees  and  you  shall  live  on 
the  interest.  Til  disown  you,  I'll  disinherit  you,  and  hang 
me  I  if  I  call  you  Jack  again  !     [Exit.  ] 

Ca2Jt.  A.  Mild,  gentle,  considerate  father  !  I  kiss  your 
hands. 

[Enter  Fag.] 

Fag.  Assuredly  sir,  your  father  is  wroth  to  a  degree  ; 
he  comes  down  stairs  eight  or  ten  steps  at  a  time,  mutter- 
ing, growling,  and  thumping  the  banisters  all  the  way ;  I, 
and  the  cook's  dog,  stand  bowing  at  the  door — rap  !  he  gives 
me  a  stroke  on  the  head  with  his  cane  !  bids  me  to  carry 
that  to  my  master ;  then  kicking  the  poor  turnspit  into  the 
area,  canes  us  all  for  a  puppy  triumvirate  !  Upon  my  credit, 
sir.  were  I  in  your  place,  and  found  my  father  such  very 
bad  company,  I  should  certainly  drop  his  acquaintance. 

Cajjt.  A.  Cease  your  impertinence,  sir — did  you  come  in 
for  nothing  more  ?  Stand  out  of  the  way.  [Pushes  him  aside^ 
and  exit.] 

Fag.  So!  Sir  Anthony  trims  my  master;  he  is  afraid 
to  reply  to  his  father,  then  vents  his  spleen  on  poor  Fag. 
When  one  is  vexed  by  one  person,  to  revenge  one's  self  on 
another,  who  happens  to  come  in  the  way,  shows  the  worst 
temper,  the  basest — 

[Enter  errand  hoy.] 

Boy.     Mr.  Fag  !  Mr.  Fag  !  your  master  calls  you. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  2C9 

Fag.  Well,  you  little  dirty  puppy,  you  needn't  bawl  so 
■ — the  meanest  disposition,  the — 

Boy.     Quick,  quick  !  Mr.  Fag. 

Fag.  Quick,  quick!  you  impudent  jackanapes  !  am  I  to 
be  commanded  by  you  too,  you  little  impertinent,  insolent, 
kitchen-bred  imp  ?     \^Kicks  him  off.] 

Scene  2. — The  North  Parade. 

\_Enter  Captain  Absolute.^ 

Capt.  A.  'Tis  just  as  Fag  told  me,  indeed  !  Whimsical 
enough,  faith !  My  father  wants  to  force  me  to  marry  the 
very  girl  T  am  plotting  to  run  away  with !  He  must  not 
know  of  my  connection  with  her  yet  awhile.  He  has  too 
summary  a  method  of  proceeding  in  these  matters  ;  how- 
ever, I'll  read  my  recantation  instantly.  My  conversion  is 
something  sudden,  indeed  ;  but,  I  can  assure  him,  it  is  very 
sincere.  So,  so,  here  he  comes  ;  he  looks  plaguy  gruff 
[Stejjs  aside] 

[F?iter  Sir  Anthony] 

Sir  A.  No — I'll  die  sooner  than  forgive  him  !  Die,  did  I 
say!  I'll  live  these  fifty  years  to  plague  him.  At  our  last 
meeting,  his  impudence  had  almost  put  me  out  of  temper — 
an  obstinate,  passionate,  self  willed  boy!  Who  can  he  take 
after?  This  is  his  return  for  all  my  goodness!  for  putting 
him  at  twelve  years  old  into  a  marching  regiment,  and  al- 
lowing him  fifty-  pounds  a  year,  beside  his  pay,  ever  since! 
But  I  have  done  with  him, — he's  anybody's  son  for  me — I 
never  will  see  him  more — never — never — never — never. 

Capt.  A.     Now  for  a  penitential  face  !     [  Comes  forward.] 

Sir  A.     Fellow,  get  out  of  my  way ! 

Capt.  A.     Sir,  you  see  a  penitent  before  you. 

Sir  A.     I  see  an  impudenC  scoundrel  before  me. 

Capt.  A.  A  sincere  penitent.  I  am  come,  sir,  to  ac- 
knowledge my  error,  and  to  submit  entirely  to  your  will. 

Sir  A.     What's  that  ? 

Capt.  A.  I  have  been  revolving,  and  reflecting,  and  con- 
sidering on  your  past  goodness,  and  kindness,  and  conde- 
scension to  me. 

Sir  A.     Well  sir  ! 

Capt.  A.  I  have  been  likewise  weighing  and  balancing 
what  you  were  pleased  to  mention,  concerning  duty,  and 
obedience,  and  authority. 

Sir  A.     Why.  now  you  talk  sense  !  -absolute  sense  !     I 
23* 


270  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

never  heard  anythina:  more  sensible  in  my  life.     Confound 
you  !  you  shall  be  called  Jack  again. 

Capt.  A.     I  am  happy,  sir,  in  the  appellation. 

»S'w'  A.  Why  then,  Jack,  my  dear  Jack.  I  will  now  in- 
form you  who  the  lady  really  is.  Nothing  but  your  passion 
and  violence,  you  silly  fellow,  prevented  my  telling  you  at 
first.  Prepare,  Jack,  for  wonder  and  rapture — prepare. 
What  think  you  of  Miss  Lydia  Languish  ? 

Capt.  A.  Languish !  What !  the  Languishes  of  Wor- 
cestershire ? 

Sir  A.  Worcestershire  !  No.  Did  you  never  meet  Mrs 
Malaprop,  and  her  niece.  Miss  Languish  who  came  into  our 
county  just  before  you  were  last  ordered  to  your  regiment? 

Capt.  A.  Malaprop!  Languish!  Let  me  see — I  think  I 
do  recollect  something — Languish — Languish — she  squints, 
don't  she  ?     A  little  red-haired  girl  ? 

Sir  A.     Squints  !     A  red-haired  girl  !    Pshaw!  no! 

Capt.  A.  Then  I  must  have  forgot ;  it  can't  be  the  same 
person. 

Sir  A.  Jack  !  Jack  !  What  think  you  of  blooming, 
love-breathing  seventeen  ? 

Capt.  A.  As  to  that,  sir,  I  am  quite  indifferent:  if  I  can 
please  you  in  the  matter,  I  shall  be  happy. 

Sir  A.  Nay,  but  Jack,  such  eyes  !  such  eyes  !  so  inno- 
cently wild  !  so  bashfully  irresolute  !  Not  a  glance  but 
speaks.'  and  kindles  some  thought  of  love  !  Then.  Jack, 
her  cheeks  '  her  cheeks  !  Jack  !  so  deeply  blushing  at  the 
insinuations  of  her  tell  tale  eyes  !  Then,  Jack,  her  lips  ! 
O,  Jack,  lips,  smiling  at  their  own  discretion  ! 

Cap)t.  A.  And  which  is  to  be  mine,  sir,  the  niece  or  the 
aunt? 

Sir  A.  Why,  you  unfeeling,  insensible  puppy,  1  despise 
you.  The  aunt,  indeed  !  Oddie  life  !  when  I  ran  away  with 
your  mother,  I  would  not  have  touched  anything  old  or  ugly 
to  gain  an  empire. 

Capt.  A.     Not  to  please  your  father,  sir  ? 

Sir  A.  To  please  my  father — sirrah  !  not  to  please — 
oh,  my  father — odd  so  !  -  yes,  yes,  if  my  father,  indeed,  had 
desired — that's  quite  another  matter — though  he  wasn't  the 
indulgent  father  that  T  am.  Jack. 

Caj^t.  A.     I  dare  say  not,  sir. 

Sir  A.  But,  Jack,  you  are  not  sorry  to  find  your  mis 
tress  so  beautiful  ? 

Capt.  A.  Sir,  I  repeat  it  if  T  please  you  in  this  afl^air,  1 
shall  be  happy.     Not  that  I  think  a  woman  the  worse  for 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  271 

being  handsome ;  but,  sir,  if  you  please  to  recollect,  you  be- 
fore hinted  something  about  a  hump  or  two,  one  eye,  and  a 
few  more  graces  of  that  kind — now  without  being  very  nice. 
I  own  that  I  should  rather  choose  a  wife  of  mine  to  have  the 
usual  number  of  limbs,  and  a  limited  quantity  of  back  ;  and, 
though  one  eye  may  be  very  agreeable,  yet  as  the  prejudice 
has  always  run  in  fiavor  of  two  I  should  not  wish  to  affect 
any  singularity  in  that  article. 

Sir  A.  What  a  phlegmatic  sot  it  is  !  Why,  sirrah,  you 
are  an  anchorite  !  A  vile,  insensible  stock  !  You  a  soldier  ! 
you're  a  walking  block,  fit  only  to  dust  the  company's  regi- 
mentals on  !  Odds  life.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  marry  the 
girl  myself! 

Capt.  A.  I  am  entirely  at  your  disposal,  sir ;  if  you 
should  think  of  addressing  Miss  Languish  yourself,  I  sup- 
pose you  w^ould  have  me  marry  the  aunt ;  or  if  you  should 
change  your  mind,  and  take  the  old  lady,  'tis  the  same  to 
me,  I'll  marry  the  niece. 

Sir  A.  Upon  m}'  word.  Jack,  thou  art  either  a  very  great 
hypocrite,  or — but,  come,  I  know  your  indifference  on  such  a 
sub'ect  must  be  all  fudge — I'm  sure  it  must — come,  now. 
come,  Jack,  confess  you've  been  playing  the  hypocrite.  I'll 
never  forgive  you,  if  you  have  not. 

CapL  A.  I'm  sorry,  sir,  that  the  respect  and  duty  which 
I  bear  to  you  should  be  so  mistaken. 

Sir  A.  Hang  your  respect  and  duty  !  But  come  along 
with  me.  I  will  write  a  note  to  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  you 
shall  visit  the  lady  directly.  Her  eyes  shall  be  the  Prome- 
thean torch  to  you — come  along,  111  never  forgive  you,  if 
you  don't  come  back  stark  mad  with  rapture  and  impatience 
— if  you  don't,  egad,  I'll  marry  the  girl  myself    [Exeunt] 


llcttom.   Tell  them  that  I,  Pyramis,  am  not  Pyratiiis,  but  Bottom,  the  weaver.— 
JiUdsummer  JV<£fAf's  Dream. 


2*72  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOG  [JES. 

XVIIL— THE  DISAPPOINTED  SUITORS. 

MR,  MAYNARD COLONEL  FAULKLAND MR.  ELLIS SERVANT. 

Scene. — A  splendid  Library. 

Mr.  Maynard.  {^Speaking  to  Servant.']  Not  at  home  to 
any  one,  excepting  Colonel  Faulkland  and  Mr.  Ellis.  This 
failure  of  Bland's  great  house,  however  deplorable  in  itself, 
at  least  bids  fair  to  put  at  end  to  my  troubles  as  a  guardian. 
Ever  since  Mary  Conway  has  been  under  my  care,  she  has 
been  besieged  by  as  many  suitors  as  Penelope.  We  shall 
see  whether  the  poor  destitute  girl  will  prove  as  attractive 
as  the  rich  heiress.  Faulkland  is  an  ardent  lover,  Ellis  a 
modest  one ;  F.aulkland  is  enormously  rich,  Ellis  compara- 
tively poor  ;  but  whether  either  — 

[Enter  Colonel  Faulkland.'] 

My  dear  Colonel,  good  morning ! — I  took  the  liberty  of 
sending  for  you 

Colonel  Faulkland.  Most  proud  and  happy  to  obey  your 
summons.  I  believe  that  I  am  before  my  time  ;  but  where 
the  heart  is,  you  know,  Mr.  Maynard  —  how  is  the  fair  Mary 
Conway  ?    I  hope  she  caught  no  cold  in  the  Park  yesterday  ? 

Mr.  May.     None  that  I  have  heard. 

Col.  Faulk.  And  that  she  has  recovered  the  fatigue  of 
Tuesday's  ball  ? 

Mr.  May.     She  does  not  complain. 

Col.  Faulk.  But  there  is  a  delicacy,  a  fragility  in  her 
loveliness,  that  mingles  fear  of  her  health,  with  admiration 
of  her  beauty. 

Mr.  May.  She  is  a  pretty  girl,  and  a  good  girl  ;  a  very 
good  girl,  considering  that,  in  her  quality  of  an  heiress,  she 
has  been  spoilt  by  the  adulation  of  every  one  that  has  ap- 
proached her  ever  since  she  was  born. 

Col.  Faulk.  Oh,  my  dear  sir,  you  know  not  how  often  I 
have  wished  that  Miss  Conway  were  not  an  heiress,  that  I 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  proving  to  her  and  to  you  the 
sincerity  and  disinterestedness  of  my  passion. 

Mr.  May.     I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so. 

Col.  Faulk.  I  may  hope,  then,  for  your  approbation  and 
your  influence  with  your  fair  ward  1  You  know  my  fortune 
and  family  ? 

Mr.  May.     Both  are  unexceptionable. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  '2l3 

Col.  Faulk.  The  estate  which  T  inherited  from  my  father, 
is  large  and  unencumbered  ;  that  which  will  devolve  to  me 
from  the  maternal  side,  is  still  more  considerable.  I  am  the 
last  of  my  race,  Mr.  Maynard  ;  and  my  mother  and  aunts 
are,  as  you  may  imagine,  very  desirous  to  see  me  settled. 
They  are  most  anxious  to  be  introduced  to  Miss  Conway  ; 
my  aunt,  Lady  Lucy,  more  particularly  so.  Mary  Conway, 
even  were  she  portionless,  is  the  very  creature  whom  they 
would  desire  as  a  relative  ;  the  very  being  to  enchant  them 

Mr.  May.     I  am  extremely  glad  to  hear  you  say  so. 
lEnter  Mr.  Ellis. ^ 

Mr.  Ellis  !  pray  be  seated.  I  sent  for  you  both,  gentle- 
men, as  the  declared  lovers  of  my  ward.  Miss  Conway,  in 
order  to  make  to  you  a#i  important  communication. 

Mr.  Ellis.     1  am  afraid  that  I  can  guess  its  import. 

Col.  Faulk.     Speak,  Mr.  Maynard — pray,  speak ! 

Mr.  May.  Have  you  heard  of  the  failure  of  the  great 
firm  of  Bland  and  Co.  ? 

Col.  Faulk.  Yes.  But  what  has  that  to  do  with  Mary 
Conway  ? — To  the  point,  my  good  sir  :   to  the  point. 

Mr.  May.  Well,  then,  to  come  at  once  to  the  point, — did 
you  never  hear  that,  though  not  an  ostensible  partner,  Mr. 
Conway's  large  property  was  lodged  in  the  firm  ? 

Mr.  Ellis.     I  had  heard  such  a  report. 

Col.  Faulk.  Mr.  Conway's  property  in  Bland's  house  ! 
the  house  of  a  notorious  speculator  !  What  incredible  impru* 
dence  ! — all  ? 

Mr.  May.     The  whole. 

Col.  Faulk.  What  miraculous  folly  ! — Then  Miss  Conway 
is  a  beggar. 

Mr.  May.  Whilst  I  live,  Mary  Conway  can  never  want 
a  home.  But  she  is  now  a  portionless  orphan  ;  and  she  de- 
sired that  you,  gentlemen,  might  be  apprised  of  the  change 
of  her  fortunes,  with  all  convenient  speed,  and  assured  that 
no  advantage  would  be  taken  of  proposals  made  under  cir- 
cumstances so  different. 

Mr.  Ellis.     Oh,  how  needless  an  assurance  ! 

Col.  Faulk.  Miss  Conway  displays  a  judicious  consid- 
eration. 

Mr.  May.  I  am.  however,  happy  to  find.  Colonel  Faulk- 
land,  that  your  affection  is  so  entirely  centered  on  the  lovely 
young  woman,  apart  from  her  riches,  that  you  will  feel  noth- 
ing but  pleasure  in  an  opportunity  of  proving  the  disin 
terestedness  of  your  love. 
R 


274  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Col  Faulk      Why,  it  must  be  confessed,  Mr.  MaynarJ — 

Mr.  May.  Your  paternal  estate  is  so  splendid  as  to  ren- 
der you  quite  independent  of  fortune  in  a  wife. 

Col  Faulk.  Why  yes.  But.  really,  my  estate  ;  what 
with  the  times  and  one  drawback  and  another.  Nobody 
knows  what  I  pay  in  annuities  to  my  father's  old  servants. 
In  fact,  Mr.  Maynard.  I  am  not  a  rich  man ;  not  by  any 
means  a  rich  man. 

Mr.  May  Then  your  great  expectations  from  your  moth- 
er, Lady  Sarah,  and  your  aunt,  Lady  Lucy. 

Col.  Faulk.  Yes.  But,  my  dear  sir,  you  have  no  notion 
of  the  aversion  which  Lady  Lucy  entertains  for  unequal 
matches — matches  where  all  the  money  is  on  one  side.  They 
never  turn  out  well,  she  says  ;  and  Lady  Lucy  is  a  sensible 
woman^ — a  very  sensible  woman.  As  far  as  my  observation 
goes,  I  must  say  that  I  think  her  right 

Mr.  May  In  short,  then,  Colonel  Faulkland,  you  no 
longer  wish  to  marry  my  ward  ? 

Col.  Faulk.  Why  really,  my  good  sir,  it  is  with  great  re- 
gret that  I  relinquish  my  pretensions  ;  and  if  I  thought  that 
the  lady's  affections  were  engaged — but  I  am  not  vain 
enough  to  imagine,  that,  with  a  rival  of  so  much  merit — 

Mr.  Ellis      [Aside.']     Contemptible  coxcomb  ! 

Col.  Faulk.  Pray,  assure  Miss  Conway  of  my  earnest 
wishes  for  her  happiness,  and  of  the  sincere  interest  I  shall 
always  feel  in  her  welfare.  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  a 
good  morning.     [  Goi7ig.\ 

Mr.  May.  A  moment,  sir,  if  you  please.  What  say  you, 
Mr.  Ellis?  Have  these  tidings  wrought  an  equal  change  in 
your  feelings  ? 

Mr.  Ellis.  They  have  indeed  wrought  a  change,  sir,  and 
a  most  pleasant  change;  since  they  have  given  hope  such  as 
1  never  dared  to  feel  before.  God  forgive  me  for  being  so 
glad  of  what  has  grieved  her  !  Tell  Mary  Conway,  that  for 
her  dear  sake,  I  wish  that  I  were  richer  but  that  never  shall 
I  wish  she  was  rich  for  mine.  Tell  her  that  if  a  fortune  ad- 
equate to  the  comforts,  elegancies,  though  not  to  the  splen- 
dors of  life,  a  pleasant  country-house,  a  welcoming  family, 
and  an  adoring  husband,  can  make  her  happy,  I  lay  them 
at  her  feet.     Tell  her — 

Mr  May.  My  dear  fellow,  you  had  far  better  tell  her 
yourself  I  have  no  doubt  but  she  will  accept  your  disin- 
terested offers,  and  I  shall  heartily  advise  her  to  do  so  ;  but 
you  must  make  up  your  mind  to  a  little  disappointment. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  27o 

Mr.  Ellis.  How !  what !  How  can  I  be  disappointed, 
so  that  Miss  Conway  wall  be  mine? 

Mr.  May.  Disappointment  is  not  quite  the  word.  But 
you  will  have  to  encounter  a  little  derangement  of  your  gen- 
erous schemes.  When  you  take  my  pretty  ward,  you  must 
e'en  take  the  burden  of  her  riches  along  with  her. 

Col.  Faulk.     She  is  not  ruined  then  ? 

Mr.  May.  No,  sir  ;  Mr.  Conway  did  at  one  time  place  a 
considerable  sum  in  the  firm  of  Messrs.  Bland  ;  but  finding 
the  senior  partner  to  be,  as  you  observed,  Colonel,  a  notori- 
ous speculator,  he  prudently  withdrew  it. 

Col.  Faulk.     And  this  was  a  mere  stratagem  ? 

Mr.  May.  Why,  really,  sir,  I  was  willing  to  prove  the 
sincerity  of  your  professions,  before  confiding  to  you  such  a 
treasure  as  Mary  Conway,  and  I  think  that  the  result  has 
fully  justified  the  experiment.  But  for  your  comfort,  I  don't 
think  she  would  have  had  you,  even  if  you  had  happened  to 
behave  better.  My  young  friend  here  had  made  himself  a 
lodgment  in  her  heart,  of  which  his  present  conduct  proves 
him  to  be  fully  worthy.  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  a 
very  good  morning.  Come,  Ellis,  Mary's  in  the  music  room. 
[Eooeunt.^ 


XIX.— IGNORANCE  AND  WILLFULNESS.— ^nonymow*. 

STUDENT DEACON. 

Student.  [Alone.']  What  can  be  better  calculated  to  fill 
the  mind  with  pleasure  than  the  study  of  philosophy  and 
astronomy  !  While  these  sciences  entertain  and  enlarge 
the  understanding,  they  lead  us  to  contemplate  that  supreme 
source  of  beauty  and  harmony,  the  Deity  himself 

Deacon.  [Behind  the  scene.]  Haw  buck,  here  !  Whoa, 
whoa!  whoa!  \Ente?'s.]  How  do  you,  my  young  friend? 
I  don't  know  but  I  have  'sturbed  you ;  you  seem  to  be 
talking  to  yourself 

Stu.  Not  in  the  least,  sir ;  I  was  contemplating  the 
beauties  of  creation,  and  admiring  the  order  in  which  the 
planets  move.  But  as  I  am  ever  fond  of  parental  instruc- 
tion, I  shall  with  no  less  pleasure  listen  to  your  observa 
tions. 


276  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Dea.  Well,  I  am  willing  to  tell  you  anything  I  know  ; 
and  there  an't  many  more  experienced,  though  I  say  it 
myself.  But  I  wish  to  know,  what  under  heaven  there  is 
in  cration  so  dreadful,  that  you're  making  such  a  bustle 
about  ? 

Stu.  Sir,  I  think  there  is  an  infinite  variety  of  objects 
to  entertain  the  rational  mind  ;  we  may  contemplate  the 
objects  every  day,  and  still  find  ourselves  lost  in  the  aston- 
ishing works  of  creation. 

Dea.  Why,  hem  !  I  'spose  there  is  something  'marka- 
ble  enough  in  cration  ;  but  for  my  part,  I  don't  see  anything 
dreadful  in  it.  I  find  more  profit  in  contriving  how  to  fat 
my  pork  and  beef  in  one  year  than  I  should  in  thinking 
'bout  cration  from  July  to  'tarnity.  [Siejjs  to  t/ie  doo?:} 
John,  don't  let  the  bull  hook  the  old  mare. 

Stu.  These  employments  are  indeed  necessary,  and  truly 
commendable ;  yet  I  find,  as  I  have  opportunity  to  improve, 
many  superior  pleasures,  which  demand  and  force  my  admi- 
ration. 

Dea.  0,  you're  one  of  those  collegers,  'bant  you?  I 
have  wanted  to  'spute  along  with  some  of  you  gump-heads, 
this  long  time.  But,  pray,  let  a  body  hear  what  these  'mark- 
able  things  are ! 

S^tc  I  think,  that  the  order  of  the  solar  system  ;  the  reg- 
ularity in  which  the  planets  move  round  the  sun,  the  center 
of  our  system ;  the  motion  of  the  earth,  which  causes  that 
pleasing  variety  of  seasons,  afford  an  ample  subject  for  our 
contemplation. 

Dea.  The  motion  of  the  earth !  'Pon  my  word,  your 
college  wit  has  got  something  new.  Do  you  mean  that  this 
great,  masterly  world  moves,  or  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Stu.  I  had  reference,  sir,  to  the  annual  and  diurnal  mo- 
tion of  the  earth. 

Dea.  What  under  the  sun  do  you  mean  by  your  animal 
and  dicurnai  motion  ?     That's  something  new. 

Stu.  I  mean  the  motion  of  the  world  on  its  own  axis, 
from  west  to  east,  once  in  twenty- four  hours. 

Dea.  What  do  you  say !  This  masterly  world  turn  over 
every  day  and  nobody  know  nothing  about  it !  If  this 
world  turns  over,  what's  the  reason  my  mill-pond  never  got 
oversot.  and  all  the  water  spilt  out  long  ago?  Do  you  think 
my  farm  ever  turned  over  ? 

Stu.  Your  farm  being  connected  with  the  rest  of  the 
jrlobe,  undoubtedly  turns  with  it. 


COMTC    AND    AMUSING.  277 

Dca.  What !  all  this  globe  turn  over,  and  my  farm  turn 
over,  too,  and  nobody  ever  find  it  out?  Though  I  'spose  my 
farm  lies  'bout  the  middle  here,  so  'twouldn't  affect  that  quite 
so  much  :  but,  what  if  anybody  should  get  close  to  the  edge, 
and  it  should  get  to  whirling,  and  whirling,  and,  like  as  not, 
'twould  throw  them  off 

Stic.  1  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  the  edge ;  this 
world  is  as  round  as  an  orange. 

Dea.  Why,  you  talk  more  and  more  like  a  fool.  What ! 
this  world  round  !  Why,  don't  you  see  'tan't  round  ?  'tis 
flat  as  a  pancake. 

Stu.     The  greatest  philosophers  give  it  as  their  opinion — 

Dea.  What  do  you  think  I  care  for  what  your  boloso- 
phers  say  when  I  know  bona  fida  'tan't  so ;  and  any  half- 
witted fool  knows  better. 

Stu.  Unless  you  can  bring  me  any  proof  to  confute  theirs, 
I  cannot  see  why  you  should  disbelieve  them. 

Dea.  Why,  I  know  'tan't  so,  and  that's  reason  enough. 
What !  this  world  round,  and  folks  live  on't,  and  turn  over, 
too  ?  That's  a  likely  story.  But  if  you  want  to  hear  my 
arguments,  you  shall  have  them  in  full.  How  do  you  think 
folks  can  stand  with  their  heads  downwards?  Why,  if  this 
world  should  only  turn  up  edgeways  all  our  houses,  and 
walls,  and  fences  would  get  to  sliding ;  and  as  soon  as  they 
got  to  the  edge,  they  would  fall  down,  down,  down,  and 
finally  they  would  never  stop :  that  would  be  charming 
good  'conomy. 

Stu.  As  the  atmosphere  turns  with  us,  the  motion  would 
not  affect  us  in  the  least;  our  feet  would  point  to  the  center 
as  they  now  do. 

Dea.  Yes,  'twould:  if  anybody  should  get  close  to  the 
edge,  and  it  should  get  to  whirling  round,  'twould  give  them 
a  confounded  hoist,  and  just  as  likely  as  not  'twould  throw 
them  ofT;  and  that  an't  all,  'twould  make  their  heads  swim, 
so  that  they  could  not  stand.  What  do  you  think  of  that? 
Why,  this  world  is  flat,  and  laid  on  its  foundation,  else  it 
could  not  stand  a  moment. 

Stu.  What  supports  that  foundation,  deacon  Homespun  ? 
that  must  have  something  to  stand  on,  too. 

Dea.  Hem  !  hem  !  hem  !  How  do  you  think  I  should 
know  ?  But  I  know  'tis  so,  and  that's  reason  enough. 
But  what  do  you  ax  such  foolish  questions  for  ?  Anybody 
knows  that  this  great  masterly  world  cant  stand  without  it 
had  something"  to  stand  on. 


278  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Stu.  If  the  world  has  a  foundation,  how  does  the  sun 
g-et  through  ? 

Dea.  Hern  !  hem  !  hem  !  that's  another  silly  question : 
but  there's  no  difficulty  at  all  in  that.  Why.  there's  a  little 
hole  just  big  enough  for  the  sun  to  get  through  without 
weakening  the  foundation. 

Stu.  But  here  is  another  difficulty,  deacon ;  the  sun  is 
much  bigger  than  this  earth,  and  consequently  must  destroy 
your  foundation. 

Dea.  What  do  you  say* — the  sun  bigger  than  this  great 
world?  You  great  dunce,  you,  'tan't  a  bit  bigger  than  a 
cart-wheel. 

Stu.  If  it  be  so  small,  how  can  it  enlighten  the  whole 
world,  especially  if  it  be  so  far  from  us  1 

Dea.  Hem  !  I  don't  raly  see  into  that  myself  But. 
then,  I  don't  s'pose  'tis  such  a  despret  ways  from  us ;  I 
should  not  think  it  was  more  than  about  two  or  three  hun- 
dred milds,  or  such  a  business ;  but  I  don't  quite  see  how 
it  goes  through  the  foundation. 

Stu.  Oh,  I  see  into  it.  I  guess  it  does  not  go  through ; 
it  only  just  goes  down  behind  the  trees  out  of  sight,  and 
then  comes  directly  back  into  the  same  place ;  and,  as  it  is 
so  small  a  thing,  we  cannot  see  it  in  the  night. 

Dea.  That's  about  as  cunning  as  the  rest  of  your  talk' 
Why,  you  great  dunce,  you  !  you  could  see  the  sun  as  plain 
as  the  nose  on  your  face,  if  it  were  ever  so  dark ! 

Stu.     Then  you  must  give  up  your  opinion. 

Dea.  Give  it  up  !  not  I !  Think  I'll  give  up  anything  I 
know  !  I've  been — less  me  see — how  old's  my  Nab  1  I've 
lived  in  this  town  sixty-four  years,  and  for  nine  years  I  was 
the  first  corporal  in  the  company,  and  for  twelve  years  I've 
been  the  oldest  deacon  in  this  place,  and  never  heard  of  the 
world's  turning  over !  'Tis  impossible  for  it  to  go  so  fast  as 
to  turn  over  every  day ! 

Stu.  But  look  here,  deacon  Homespun,  as  the  sun  is  so 
far  from  us,  how  many  thousand  times  faster  must  it  move 
than  the  earth  to  go  round  us  in  twenty-four  hours  1 

Dea.  Hem  !  hem !  Why  do  you  ax  such  a  foolish  ques- 
tion ?  I  don't  raly  understand  that ;  but  the  Bible  says  so, 
and  nobody  has  any  business  to  conspute  the  Bible,  you 
young  blasphemer  ! 

Stu.  The  Bible  was  not  given  to  teach  us  philosophy, 
but  religion  ;  therefore    it  says   nothing  about  it. 

Dea..     But  what  makes  you  think  the  earth  is  round? 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  270 

Sill  Several  reasons :  the  circular  shadow  of  the  earth 
when  it  eclipses  the  moon  ;  and  because  several  persons 
have  sailed  round  it. 

Dea.  The  earth  never  'clipses  the  moon  !  Do  you  think 
the  earth  ever  gets  turned  up  between  us  and  the  moon  ! 
No;  'tis  the  sun  that  'clipses  the  moon.  As  to  sailino 
round,  they  only  sail  close  to  the  edge,  and  take  special  care 
that  they  don't  sail  off;  but  if  this  world  turns  round  in 
twenty-four  hours,  they  might  tie  up  their  vessel  to  a  tree, 
and  it  would  go  round  of  itself  every  day. 

Stu.  But  how  happens  it  that  the  moon  is  always 
eclipsed  when  the  sun  is  going  through  your  foundation  ? 

JDea.  Hem  !  hem!  Well.  T  an't  going  to  giv6  up  any- 
thing I  know :  and  I  shan't  believe  this  world  turns  round, 
till  I  find  I  can  stand  on  my  head ;  and  I  know  the  world 
can't  stand  without  it  has  something  to  stand  on. 

Stu.  How  do  you  suppose  the  sun,  moon  and  stars  are 
supported  without  their  proper  foundation  ? 

JDea.  How  do  you  think  I  know !  But  if  the  world 
turns  round,  what's  the  reason  our  minister  never  said  noth- 
ing about  it  ? 

Stu.  He'll  tell  you  so  whenever  you  ask  him,  or  he  is 
not  fit  for  a  minister. 

Dea.  You're  an  impudent  son  of  a  blockhead.  Do  you 
mean  to  consult  me  to  my  face?  and  a  deacon,  too ! 

Stu.     If  you  are  offended,  I've  no  more  to  say. 

Dea.  Well,  I'll  make  you  know  better  than  to  conspute 
me !  you  young  blockhead  I  [ExeufU.'} 


Cocklctop.    This  is  Neptune's  trident,  and  this  piece  of  fumitiu-e  from  Horcula 
neum,  the  model  of  the  Escurial.— JJfodern  Antiques. 


280  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


XX.— FROM  THE  DOCTOR  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF.— i?V>W?Wy. 

GREGORY SIR   JASPER SQUIRE    ROBERT HARRY JAMES 

DORCAS. 

Scene  1. — A  Wood. 

[Enter  Dorcas  and  Gregory.l 

Gregory.  I  tell  you  no  !  I  won't  comply,  and  it  is  my 
business  to  talk  and  to  command. 

Dorcas.  And  I  tell  you,  you  shall  conform  to  my  will, 
and  that  I  was  not  married  to  you  to  suffer  your  ill  humors. 

Greg.  0,  the  intolerable  fatigue  of  matrimony  !  Aris- 
totle never  said  a  better  thing  in  his  life,  than  when  he  told 
us,  "  that  a  wife  is  worse  than  a  plague." 

Dor.     Hear  the  learned  gentleman,  with  his  Aristotles. 

Greg.  And  a  learned  man  I  am,  too.  Find  me  out  a 
maker  of  fagots,  that's  able,  like  myself,  to  reason  upon 
things,  or  that  can  boast  such  an  education  as  mine. 

Dor.     An  education ! 

Greg.  Ay,  woman,  a  regular  education  ;  first  at  the  char- 
ity-school, where  I  learnt  to  read ;  then  I  waited  on  a  gen- 
tleman at  Oxford,  where  I  learnt — very  near  as  much  as  my 
master :  from  whence  T  attended  a  traveling  physician  six 
years,  under  the  facetious  denomination  of  a  Merry  Andrew, 
where  I  learnt  physic. 

Dor.  0,  that  thou  hadst  followed  him  still !  Ah !  ill- 
fated  hour,  wherein  I  answered  the  parson  - 1  will. 

Greg.  And  ill-fated  be  the  parson  that  asked  me  the 
question  ! 

Dor.  You  have  reason  to  complain  of  him,  indeed,  who 
ought  to  be  on  your  knees  every  moment,  returning  thanks 
to  Heaven,  for  that  great  blessing  it  sent  you,  when  it  sent 
you  myself  I  hope  you  have  not  the  assurance  to  think 
you  deserve  such  a  wife  as  I. 

Greg.  No,  really,  I  don't  think  I  do.  Come,  come,  mad- 
am, it  was  a  luc'.y  day  for  you,  when  you  found  me  out. 

Dor.  Lucky,  indeed!  a  fellow  who  eats  everything  I 
have. 

Greg.  That  happens  to  be  a  mistake,  for  I  drink  some 
part  on't. 

Dor.     That  has  not  even  left  me  a  bed  to  lie  on. 

Greg.     You'll  rise  the  earlier. 


COMIC    AND    AMITPING.  281 

Dor.     And  who,  from  morning  till  night,  is  constantly  in 
an  ale-house. 

Gh'eg.     It's  genteel ;  the  squire  docs  the  same. 

Dor.     Pray,  sir,  what  are  you  willing  I  shall  do  with  my 
family?    - 

Greg.     Whatever  you  please. 

Dor.     My  four  little  children,  that  are  continually  crying 
for  bread  ! 

Greg.     Give  'era  a  rod  !  best  cure  in  the  world,  for  crying 
children. 

Dor.     And  do  you  imagme,  sot — 

Greg.     Hark  ye,  my  dear ;  you  know  my  temper  is  not 
over-and-above  passive,  and  that  my  arm  is  extremely  active. 

Dor.     I   laugh  at  your  threats,  poor,  beggarly,  insolent 
fellow. 

Greg.     Soft  object  of  my  wishing  eyes,  I  shall  play  with 
your  pretty  rars. 

Dor.     Touch   me  if  you   dare,   you    insolent,  impudent, 
dirty,  lazy — 

Greg.     Oh,  ho,  ho  !  you  will  have  it  then,  I  find.    {Beats 
her.'] 

Dor,     0,  murder  !  murder! 

[Enter  Squire  Robert.'] 

Robert.     What's  the  matter  here?     Fie  upon  you,  neigh- 
bor, to  beat  your  wife  in  this  scandalous  manner. 

Dor.     Well  sir,  and  I  have  a  mind  to  be  beat,  and  what 
then  ? 

Rob.     0  dear,  madam  !  I  give  my  consent,  with  all  my 
heart  and  soul. 

Dor.     What's  that,  you  saucebox  ?     Is  it  any  business  of 
yours? 

Rob.     No,  certainly,  madam. 

Dor.     Here's  an  impertinent  fellow  for  you  ;  won't  sufler 
a  husband  to  beat  his  own  wife  ! 

Rob.     Neighbor,  I  ask  your  pardon  heartily ;  here,  take 
and  thrash  your  wife  ;  beat  her  as  you  ought  to  do. 

Greg.     No,  sir,  I  won't  beat  her. 

Rob.     0  !  sir,  that's  another  thing. 

Greg.     I'll  beat  her  when  I  please,  and  will  not  beat  hei 
when  I  do  not  please.     She  is  my  wife,  and  not  yours. 

Rob.     Certainly. 

Dor.     Give  me  the  stick,  dear  husband. 

Rob.     Well,  if  I  ever  attempt  to  part  husband  and  wife 
again,  may  I  be  beaten  myself     \_ETif.'] 

24* 


282  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Greg.     Come,  my  dear,  let  us  be  friends. 

Dor.     What,  after  beating  me  so  1 

Greg.     'Tvvas  but  in  jest. 

Dor.  I  desire  you  will  crack  your  jests  on  your  own 
bones  next  time,  not  on  mine. 

Greg.  Psha  I  you  know,  you  and.  I  are  one,  and  I  beat 
one  half  of  myself,  when  I  beat  you. 

Dor.  Yes,  but  for  the  future,  I  desire  you  will  beat  the 
other  half  of  yourself 

Greg.  Come,  my  pretty  dear,  I  ask  pardon ;  I'm  sorr} 
for't. 

Dor.     For  once,  I  pardon  you, — but  you  shall  pay  for  it. 

Greg.  Psha!  psha!  child,  these  are  only  little  affairs 
necessary  in  friendship ;  four  or  five  good  blows  with  a  cud- 
gel, between  your  very  fond  couples  only  tend  to  heighten 
the  affections.  I'll  now  to  the  wood,  and  I  promise  thee  to 
make  a  hundred  fagots  before  I  come  home  again.     \^Exit.^ 

Dor.  If  I  am  not  revenged  for  those  blows  of  yours  I — 
Oh,  that  I  could  but  thin\  of  some  method  to  be  revenged 
on  him  ! — Oh.  that  I  could  but  find  out  some  invention  to 
get  him  well  drubbed  ! 

[E?tter  Harry  and  James.'] 

Harry.  Were  ever  two  fools  sent  on  such  a  message  as 
we  are,  in  quest  of  a  dumb  doctor  ? 

James.  Blame  your  own  paltry  memory,  that  made  you 
forget  his  name.  For  my  part,  I'll  travel  through  the  world, 
rather  than  return  without  him  ;  that  were  as  much  as  a 
limb  or  two  were  worth. 

liar.  Was  ever  such  a  sad  misfortune  !  to  lose  the  letter  ! 
I  should  not  even  know  his  name,  if  I  were  to  hear  it. 

Dor.  Can  I  find  no  invention  to  be  revenged.  [Aside.] 
• — Heyday  !  who  are  these  ? 

Jam.  Hark  ye,  mistress  ;  do  you  know  where — where — 
where  doctor  what-d'ye-call  him,  lives ! 

Dor.     Doctor  who  ? 

Jam.     Doctor — doctor — what's  his  name  ? 

Dor.     Hey  !  what,  has  the  fellow  a  mind  to  banter  me  ? 

Har.  Is  there  no  physician  hereabouts,  famous  for  curing 
dumbness, 

Dor.  I  fancy  you  have  no  need  of  such  a  physician,  Mr. 
Impertinence. 

Har.  Don't  mistake  us,  good  woman  ;  we  don't  mean  to 
banter  you  ;  we  are  sent  by  our  master,  whose  daughter  has 
lest  her  speech,  for  a  certain  physician,  who  lives  hereabouti^ ; 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  28-? 

we  have  lost  our  direction,  and  'tis  as  much  as  our  lives  are 
worth,  to  return  without  him. 

Dor.  There  is  one  Doctor  Lazy  lives  just  by,  but  he  has 
left  off  practicing.  You  would  not  get  him  a  mile,  to  save 
the  lives  of  a  thousand  patients. 

Jam.  Direct  us  but  to  him  ;  we'll  bring  him  with  us  one 
way  or  other,  I  warrant  you. 

Har.  Ay,  ay,  we'll  have  him  with  us,  though  we  carry 
him  on  our  backs. 

Dor.  Ha !  revenge  inspires  me  with  one  of  the  most  ad- 
mirable thoughts  to  punish  the  cruel  churl.  [Aside.]  He's 
reckoned  one  of  the  best  physicians  in  the  world,  especially 
for  dumbness. 

Har.     Pray  tell  me  where  he  lives  ? 

Dor.  You'll  never  be  able  to  get  him  out  of  his  own 
house ;  but,  if  you  watch  hereabouts,  you'll  certainly  meet 
with  him,  for  he  very  often  amuses  himself  here  with  cut- 
ting wood. 

Jlar.     A  physician  cut  wood  ! 

Jam  I  suppose  he  apouses  himself  in  searching  after 
herbs,  you  mean. 

Dor.  No,  he's  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  men  in  the 
world  :  he  goes  dressed  like  a  common  clown  ;  for  there  is 
nothing  he  so  much  dreads,  as  to  be  known  for  a  physi*cian. 

Jam.  All  your  great  men  have  strange  oddities  about 
'em. 

Dor.  Why,  he  will  suffer  himself  to  be  beat,  before  he 
will  own  himself  to  be  a  physician :  and  I'll  give  you  my 
word,  you'll  never  make  him  own  himself  one,  unless  you 
both  of  you  take  a  good  cudgel  and  thrash  him  with  it;  'tis 
what  we  are  all  forced  to  do,  when  we  have  any  need  of  him. 

Jam.     What  a  ridiculous  whim  is  here  ! 

Dor.     Very  true  ;  and  in  so  great  a  man. 

Jam.     And  is  he  so  very  skillful  a  man  ? 

Dor.  Skillful  !  why.  he  does  miracles.  About  half  a 
year  ago,  a  woman  was  given  over  by  all  her  physicians, 
nay,  it  is  said,  she  had  been  dead  some  time  ;  when  this 
great  man  came  to  her,  as  soon  as  he  saw  her,  he  poured  a 
little  drop  of  something  down  her  throat, — he  had  no  sooner 
done  it,  than  she  walked  about  the  room  as  if  there  had  been 
nothing  the  matter  with  her. 

Both.     Oh,  prodigious  ! 

Dor.  'Tis  not  above  three  weeks  ago.  that  a  child  of 
twelve  years  old,  fell  from  the  top  of  a  house  to  the  bottom. 


284  NEW    SCHOOL    DTALOGURS. 

and  broke  its  skull,  its  arms,  and  legs.  Our  physician  was 
no  sooner  drubbed  into  making  him  a  visit,  than  having 
rubbed  the  child  all  over  with  a  certain  ointment,  it  got 
upon  its  legs,  and  ran  away  to  play. 

Both.     Oh,  most  wonderful ! 

Har.  Hey  !  James,  we'll  drub  him  out  of  a  pot  of  this 
omtment. 

Jam.     But  can  he  cure  dumbness  ? 

Dor.  Dumbness  !  why,  the  curate  of  our  parish's  wife 
was  born  dumb,  and  the  doctor,  they  say,  with  a  sort  of 
wash,  washed  her  tongue  till  he  set  it  a-going,  so  that  in  less 
than  a  month's  time  she  out-talked  her  husband. 

Har.     This  must  be  the  very  man  we  were  sent  after. 

Dor.     Yes,  no  doubt ;  and  see,  yonder  he  is. 

Ja7n.     What,  that  he,  yonder  ] 

Dor.  The  very  same. — He  has  spied  us,  and  is  taking  up 
his  bill. 

Jarn.  Come,  Harry,  don't  let  us  lose  one  moment.  Mis- 
tress, your  servant ;  we  give  you  ten  thousand  thanks  for 
this  favor. 

Dor.     Be  sure  and  make  good  use  of  your  sticks. 

Jam.     He  shan't  want  for  that.      [Exeunt.'] 

Scene  2. — Another  part  of  the  Wood. 

[JEnter  James.,  Harry ^  and  Gregory.] 

Greg.  Feugh  !  'tis  most  confounded  hot  weather.  Hey  ! 
who  have  we  here  ? 

Jam.     Sir,  your  most  obedient,  humble  servant. 

Greg.     Sir,  your  servant.     \^Boiving.] 

Jam.     We  are  mighty  happy  in  finding  you  here. 

Greg.     Ay,  like  enough. 

Jam.  'Tis  in  your  power,  sir,  to  do  us  a  very  great  favor. 
We  come,  sir,  to  implore  your  assistance  in  a  certain  affair. 

G^-eg.  If  it  be  in  my  power  to  give  you  any  assistance, 
masters,  I  am  very  ready  to  do  it. 

Jam.  Sir,  you  are  extremely  obliging ;  but,  dear  sir,  let 
me  beg  you'd  be  covered — the  sun  will  hurt  your  complexion. 

Har      Oh,  do,  good  sir,  do  be  covered. 

Greg  These  should  be  footmen,  by  their  dress  ;  but 
courtiers,  by  their  ceremony.     [^Aside.] 

Jam.  You  must  not  think  it  strange,  sir,  that  we  come 
thus  to  seek  after  you  ;  men  of  your  capacity  will  be  sought 
after  by  the  whole  world. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  285 

Greg.  Truly,  gentlemen,  though  I  say  it,  that  should  not 
say  it,  I  have  a  pretty  good  hand  at  a  fagot. 

Javi.     0  dear,  sir ! 

Greg  You  may,  perhaps,  buy  fagots  cheaper  elsewhere  ; 
but,  if  you  find  such  in  all  this  country,  you  shall  have  mine 
for  nothing.  To  make  but  one  word,  then,  with  you,  you 
shall  have  mine  for  ten  shillings  a  hundred. 

Jam.     Don't  talk  in  that  manner,  I  desire  you 

Greg.  I  could  not  sell  'em  a  penny  cheaper,  if  'twas  to 
my  father. 

Jam.  Dear  sir,  we  know  you  very  well — don't  jest  with 
us  in  this  manner. 

Greg.  Faith,  master,  I  am  so  much  in  earnest,  that  I 
can't  bate  one  farthing. 

Jam.  0  pray,  sir.  leave  this  idle  discourse.  Can  a  per- 
son like  you  amuse  himself  in  this  manner?  Can  a  learned 
and  famous  physician,  like  you.  try  to  disguise  himself  to 
the  world,  and  bury  such  fine  talents  in  the  woods? 

Greg.     The  fellow's  a  ninny. 

Jam.     Let  me  entreat  you,  sir,  not  to  dissemble  with  us. 

Har.     It  is  in  vain,  sir,  we  know  what  you  are. 

Greg.     Know  what  you  are  !  what  do  you  know  of  me  ? 

Jam.     Why  we  know  you,  sir,  to  be  a  very  great  physician. 

Greg.     Physician  in  your  teeth  !     I  a  physician  ! 

Jain.  The  fit  is  on  him.  Sir,  let  me  beseech  you  to  con- 
ceal yourself  no  longer,  and  oblige  us  to — you  know  what. 

Greg.  Know  what !  No,  sir ;  I  don't  know  what.  But 
I  know  this,  that  I'm  no  physician. 

Jam.  We  must  proceed  to  the  usual  remedy,  I  find. 
And  so  you  are  no  physician  ? 

Greg.     No. 

Ja7n.     You  are  no  physician  ? 

Greg.     No,  I  tell  you. 

Jam.     Well,  if  we  must,  w^e  must.     [Beats  him.] 

Greg.  Oh  !  oh  !  Gentlemen  !  gentlemen  !  what  are  you 
doing  ?     I  am — I'm  whatever  you'd  please  to  have  me  ! 

Jam.     Why  will  you  oblige  us,  sir,  to  this  violence  ? 

Har.     Why  will  you  force  us  to  this  troublesome  remedy  ? 

Ja9n.     1  assure  you.  sir.  it  gives  me  a  great  deal  of  pain. 

Greg.  I  assure  you,  sir,  and  so  it  does  me.  But,  pray, 
gentlemen,  what  is  the  reason  that  you  have  a  mind  to  make 
a  physician  of  me  ? 

Jam.     What!  do  you  deny  your  being  a  physician  again  ? 

Greg.     To  be  sure,  I  do.     I  am  no  physician. 


286 


KEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


Har.     You  are  no  physician  ? 

Greg.     May  1   be  hanged  if  I  am.     \Tliey  heat  him.] 


Oh  !  oh  !  Pear  gentlemen  !  Oh  !  for  mercy's  sake  !  T  am 
a  physician,  and  an  apothecary  too,  if  you'll  have  me.  I 
had  rather  be  anything  tRan  be  knocked  o'  the  head. 

Jam.  Dear  sir.  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you  come  to  your 
senses ;  I  ask  pardon  ten  thousand  times  for  what  you  have 
forced  us  to. 

Greg.  Perhaps  I  am  deceived  myself  and  am  a  physi- 
cian without  knowing  it.  But,  dear  gentlemen,  are  you 
certain  I'm  a  physician  ? 

Jam.     Yes,  the  greatest  physician  in  the  world. 

Greg.     Indeed ! 

Ha7.     A  physician  that  has  cured  all  sorts  of  distempers. 

Greg.     The  dickens  I  have  ! 

Jam.  That  has  made  a  woman  walk  about  the  room 
after  she  was  dead  six  hours. 

Har.  That  set  a  child  upon  its  legs  immediately  after  it 
had  broke  'em. 

Jarii.  That  made  the  curate's  wife  who  was  dumb,  talk 
faster  than  her  husband. 

Har.  Look  ye.  sir  ;  you  shall  have  content ;  my  master 
will  give  you  whatever  you  will  demand. 

Greg.     Shall  I  have  whatever  T  will  demand  ? 

Jani.     You  may  depend  upon  it. 

Greg.    I  am  a  physician,  then,  without  doubt.    I  had  forgot 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  287 

it,  but  I  begin  to  recollect  myself  Well — and  what  is  the 
distemper  I  am  to  cure  ? 

Jam.     My  young  mistress,  sir,  lias  lost  her  tongue. 

Greg.  Well,  what  if  she  has;  do  you  think  I've  found 
it?  But.  come  gentlemen  if  I  must  go  with  you,  I  must 
have  a  physician's  habit ;  for  a  physician  can  no  more  pre- 
scribe without  a  full  wig,  than  without  a  fee.     \Kxeunt,\ 

Scene  3. — Sir  Jasper's  House. 

[Enter  Sir  Jasper  and,  James.  \ 

Sir  Jasper.     Where  is  he  ?  where  is  he  ? 

Jam.  Only  recruiting  himself  after  his  journey.  You 
need  not  be  impatient,  sir,  for  were  my  young  lady  dead, 
he'd  bring  her  to  life  again.  He  makes  no  more  of  bring- 
ing a  patient  to  life  than  other  physicians  do  of  killing  him. 

Sir  J.  'Tis  strange  so  great  a  man  should  have  those 
unaccountable  odd  humors  you  mentioned. 

Jam.  'Tis  but  a  good  blow  or  two,  and  he  comes  imme- 
diately to  himself     Here  he  is. 

\^Enier  Gregory."] 
Sir  this  is  the  doctor. 

Sir  J.     Dear  sir,  you  are  the  welcomest  man  in  the  world. 

Gi'eg.     Hippocrates  says,  we  should  both  be  covered. 

Sir  J.  Ha!  does  Hippocrates  say  so?  In  what  chapter, 
pray? 

Grog.     In  his  chapter  of  hats. 

Sir  J.     Since  Hippocrates  says  so,  I  shall  obey  him. 

Greg.  Doctor,  after  having  exceedingly  traveled  in  the 
highway  of  letters — 

Sir  J.     Doctor!  pray  whom  do  you  speak  to? 

Greg.     To  you,  doctor. 

Sir  J.  Ha  !  ha  !  I  am  a  knight,  thank  the  king's  grace 
for  it ;  but  no  doctor — 

Greg.     What!  you're  no  doctor? 

Sir  J.     No,  upon  my  word. 

Greg.     You're  no  doctor? 

Sir  J.     Doctor  ;  no. 

Greg.     There — 'tis  done.     [Beats  him.] 

Sir  J.     Done  !  in  the  name  of  mischief,  what's  done  ? 

Greg.  Why,  now  you  are  made  a  doctor  of  physic. 
[Aside.]     I  am  sure  it's  all  the  degrees  I  ever  took 

Sir  J.  What  bedlamite  of  a  fellow  have  you  brought 
here  ? 


288  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Jam.  I  told  you,  sir,  the  doctor  had  strange  whims  with 
him 

Sir  J.  Whims,  quotha  '  Truly  !  I  shall  bind  his  physi- 
cianship  over  to  his  good  behavior,  if  he  have  any  more  of 
these  whims. 

Greg.     Sir,  I  ask  pardon  for  the  Hberty  I  have  taken. 

Sir  J.     Oh  !  it's  very  well ;  it's  very  well,  for  once. 

Greg.     I  am  sorrow  for  these  blows — 

Sir  J.     Nothing  at  all,  nothing  at  all,  sir. 

G^'eg.  Which  I  was  obliged  to  have  the  honor  of  laying 
so  thick  on  you. 

Sir  J.  Let's  talk  no  more  of  'em,  sir — my  daughter,  doc- 
tor, is  fallen  into  a  very  strange  distemper. 

Greg.  Sir,  I  am  overjoyed  to  hear  it ;  and  I  wish,  with 
all  my  heart,  you,  and  your  whole  family,  had  the  same  oc- 
casion for  me  as  your  daughter,  to  show  the  great  desire  I 
have  to  serve  you. 

Sir  J.     Sir,  I  am  obliged  to  you. 

Greg.  1  assure  you,  sir,  I  speak  from  the  very  bottom 
of  my  soul. 

Sir  J.  I  do  believe  you,  sir,  from  the  very  bottom  of 
mine. 

Greg.     What  is  your  daughter's  name  ? 

Sir  J.     My  daughter's  name  is  Charlotte. 

Greg.     Are  you  sure  she  was  christened  Charlotte  ? 

Sir  J.     No,  sir ;  she  was  christened  Charlotta. 

Greg.  Hum  !  I  had  rather  she  should  have  been  chris- 
tened Charlotte  Charlotte  is  a  very  good  name  for  a  pa- 
tient ;  and,  let  me  tell  you,  the  name  is  often  of  as  much 
service  to  the  patient  as  the  physician  is.  Pray,  what's  the 
matter  with  your  daughter?  what's  her  distemper? 

Sir  J.  Why,  her  distemper,  doctor,  is,  that  she  has  be- 
come dumb,  and  no  one  can  assign  the  cause — and  this  dis- 
temper, sir,  has  kept  back  her  marriage 

Greg      Kept  back  her  marriage  !  why  so  ? 

Sir  J.  Because  her  lover  refuses  to  have  her  till  she's 
cured. 

Greg.  0  lud  !  was  ever  such  a  fool,  that  would  not  have 
his  wife  dumb  !  Would  to  heaven  my  wife  was  dumb  ;  I'd 
be  far  from  desiring  to  cure  her.  Does  this  distemper  op- 
press her  very  much  ? 

Sir  J.     Yes,  sir. 

Greg.     So  much  the  better.     Has  she  any  great  pains? 

Sir  J.     Very  great. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  289 

Greg.  That's  just  as  I  would  have  it.  We  great  physi- 
cians know  a  distemper  immediately.  I  know  some  of  the 
college  would  call  your  daughter's  distemper  the  Boree,  or 
the  Coupee,  or  the  Sinkee.  or  twenty  other  distempers;  but 
I  give  you  my  word  sir,  your  daughter  is  nothing  more 
than  dumb;  so  I'd  have  you  be  very  easy,  for  there  is  noth- 
ing else  the  matter  with  her.  If  she  were  not  dumb,  she 
would  be  as  well  as  I  am. 

Sir  J.  But  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  doctor,  from 
whence  her  dumbness  proceeds? 

Greg.  Nothing  so  easily  accounted  for.  Her  dumbness 
proceeds  from  her  having  lost  her  speech. 

Sir  J.  But  whence,  if  you  please,  proceeds  her  having 
lost  her  speech  ? 

Greg.  All  our  best  authors  will  tell  you.  it  is  the  im- 
pediment of  the  action  of  the  tongue. 

Sir  J.  But,  if  you  please,  dear  sir.  your  sentiment  upon 
that  impediment. 

Greg.  Aristotle  has.  upon  that  subject,  said  very  fine 
things  ;  very  fine  things. 

Sir  J.     I  believe  it,  doctor. 

Greg.  Ah  !  he  was  a  great  man ;  he  was  indeed  a  very 
great  man,  who.  upon  that  subject,  was  a  man  that — but,  to 
return  to  our  reasoning:  I  hold  that  this  impediment  of  the 
action  of  the  tongue  is  caused  by  certain  humors,  which  our 
great  physicians  call  -  humors — humors — ah!  you  under- 
stand Latin — 

Sir  J.     Not  in  the  least. 

Greg.     What !  not  understand  Latin  ? 

Sir  J.     No,  indeed,  doctor. 

Greg.  Cabricius  arci  Thurum  Cathalimus,  Singulariter 
non.  Haec  musa,  hie,  haec,  hoc,  Genilivo  hujus,  hunc,  banc, 
Musae,  Bonus,  bona  bonum.  Estne  oratio  Latinus?  Etiam. 
Quia  Substantivo  et  Abjectivum  concordat  in  Greneri,  Nume- 
rum,  et  Casus,  sic  aiunt,  prasdicant  clamitant,  et  similibus. 

Sir  J.     Ah  !  why  did  I  neglect  ray  studies  \ 

Jam.     What  a  prodigious  man  is  this  ! 

Greg.  Besides  sir,  certain  spirits,  passing  from  the  left 
side,  which  is  the  seat  of  the  liver,  to  the  right,  which  is  the 
seat  of  the  heart  we  find  the  lungs,  which  we  call  in  Latin, 
Whiskerus,  having  communication  with  the  brain  which  we 
name  in  Greek.  Jackbootos,  by  means  of  a  hollow  vein, 
which  we  call  'n  Hebrew,  Periwiggus  meet  in  the  road 
with  the  said  spirits,  which  fill  the  ventricles  of  the  Omota- 
S  -25 


290  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

plasmus,  and  because  the  said  humors  have — you  compre- 
hend me  well  sir?-  and  because  the  said  humors  have  a 
certain  malignity — listen  seriously,  I  beg  you — 

Sir  J.     I  do. 

Greg.  Have  a  certain  malignity,  that  is  caused — be  at- 
tentive, if  you  please  - 

Sir  /.     I  am. 

Greg.  That  is  caused,  I  say,  by  the  acrimony  of  the  hu- 
mors engendered  in  the  concavity  of  the  diaphragm  ;  thence 
it  arrives,  that  these  vapors.  Propriaque  maribus  tribuunter, 
mascula  dicas,  Ut  sunt  divorum.  This,  sir,  is  the  cause  of 
your  daughter's  being  dumb. 

Jam.     0,  that  I  had  but  his  tongue ! 

Sir  J.  It  is  impossible  to  reason  better,  no  doubt.  But, 
dear  sir,  there  is  one  thing — I  always  thought  till  now,  that 
the  heart  was  on  the  left  side,  and  the  liver  on  the  right. 

Greg.  Ay,  sir.  so  they  were  formerly,  but  w^e  have 
changed  all  that.  The  college  at  present,  sir,  proceeds  upon 
an  entire  new  method. 

Sir  J.     I  ask  your  pardon,  sir. 

Greg.  Oh  sir,  there's  no  harm  ;  you're  not  obliged  to 
know  so  much  as  we  do. 

Sir  J.  Very  true  ;  but,  doctor,  what  would  you  have 
done  with  my  daughter  ? 

Greg.  AVhat  would  I  have  done  with  her?  Why,  my 
advice  is,  that  you  immediately  put  her  into  a  bed  warmed 
with  a  brass  warming-pan  :  cause  her  to  drink  one  quart  of 
spring  water,  mixed  with  one  pint  of  brandy,  six  Seville 
oranges,  and  three  ounces  of  the  best  double  refined  sugar. 

Sir  J.     Why,  this  is  punch,  doctor. 

Greg.  Punch,  sir  !  Ay.  sir ;  and  what's  better  than 
punch,  to  make  people  talk  i  Never  tell  me  of  your  juleps, 
your  gruels — your — your — this,  and  that  and  t'other,  which 
are  only  arts  to  keep  a  patient  in  hand  a  long  time.  I  love 
to  do  a  business  all  at  once. 

Sir  J.  Doctor,  I  ask  pardon ;  you  shall  be  obeyed. 
[Gz'w.s  money. \ 

Greg.  But  hold !  Sir  Jasper,  let  me  tell  you,  it  were 
not  amiss  if  you  yourself  took  a  little  lenitive  physic  :  I 
shall  prepare  something  for  you. 

Sir  J.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !  No,  no  doctor ;  I  have  escaped 
both  doctors  and  distempers  hitherto,  and  1  am  resolved  the 
distemper  shall  pay  me  the  first  visit. 

Greg.     Say  you   so,  sir  ?     Why,  then,  if  I  can  get  no 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  29 1 

more  patients  here,  I  must  even  seek  'em  elsewhere  and  so 
humbly  beggo  te  Dominie  Domitii  veniam  goundi  foras. 
[Exit.] 

Sir  J.  Well,  this  is  a  physician  of  vast  capacity,  but  of 
exceeding  odd  humors.  He,  no  doubt,  understands  himself, 
however,  and  I  have  great  faith  in  his  prescription.  I  honor 
the  learned  doctor.     \Exeunt.\ 


XXL— FROM  THE  WEATHERCOCK.— .^^/m^^am. 

OLD  FICKLE TraSTRAM  FICKLE BRIEFWIT SNEER BARBER. 

Scene  1. — A  Chamber  in  Fickle's  House. 

\Enter  Old  FicJde  and  Tristram  Fidde7\ 

Old  Fickle.  What  reputation,  what  honor,  what  profit, 
can  accrue  to  you.  from  such  conduct  as  yours  ?  One  mo- 
ment you  tell  me  you  are  going  to  become  the  greatest  mu- 
sician in  the  world,  and  straight  you  fill  my  house  with 
fiddlers. 

Tristram.     I  am  clear  out  of  that  scrape  now,  sir. 

Old  F.  Then,  from  a  fiddler,  you  are  metamorphosed 
into  a  philosopher ;  and  for  the  noise  of  drums,  trumpets  and 
hautboys,  you  substitute  a  vile  jargon,  more  unintelligible 
than  was  ever  heard  at  the  Tower  of  Babel. 

Tri.  You  are  right,  sir.  I  have  found  out  that  philoso- 
phy is  folly  :  so  I  have  cut  the  philosophers  of  all  sects,  from 
Plato  and  Aristotle,  down  to  the  puzzlers  of  modern  date. 

Old  F.  How  much  had  I  to  pay  the  cooper,  the  other 
day,  for  barreling  you  up  in  a  large  tub,  when  you  resolved 
to  live  like  Diogenes  ? 

Tri.  You  should  not  have  paid  him  anything,  sir,  for  the 
tub  would  not  hold.     You  sec  the  contents  are  run  out. 

Old  F.  No  jesting,  sir  ;  this  is  no  laughing  matter.  Your 
tollies  have  tired  me  out.  I  verily  believe  you  have  taken 
the  whole  round  of  arts  and  sciences  in  a  month,  and  have 
been  of  fiftj^  difierent  minds  in  half  an  hour. 

Tri.     And,  by  that  shown  the  versatility  of  my  genius 

Old  F.  Don't  tell  me  of  versatility,  sir.  Let  me  see  a  lit- 
tle steadiness.  You  ha\  t;  never  yet  been  constant  to  any- 
thing but  extravagance. 


'292  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Tri.     Yes,  sir,  one  thing  more. 

Old  F.     What  is  that  sir? 

Tn  Affection  for  you.  Plowever  my  head  may  have 
wandered,  my  heart  has  always  been  constantly  attached 
to  the  kindest  of  parents  ;  and  from  this  moment,  I  am  re- 
solved to  lay  my  follies  aside,  and  pursue  that  line  of  conduct 
which  will  be  most  pleasing  to  the  best  of  fathers  and  of 
friends. 

Old  F.  Well  said,  my  boy !  well  said  !  You  make  me 
happy  indeed.  [^Patting  him  on  the  shoulder.']  Now  then, 
my  dear  Tristram,  let  me  know  what  you  really  mean  to  do. 

Tri.     To  study  the  law  — 

Old  F.     The  law  ! 

Tri.  1  am  most  resoliitely  bent  on  following  that  pro- 
fession 

Old  F.     No! 

Tri.     Absolutely  and  irrevocably  fixed. 

Old  F  Better  and  better  ;  I  am  overjoyed.  Why,  'tis 
the  very  thing  I  wished.  Now  I  am  happy.  [Tristram 
makes  gestures  as  if  sjoeaking.']  See  how  his  mind  is  en- 
gaged ! 

Tri.     Gentlemen  of  the  jury — 

Old  F.     Why,  Tristram— 

7Vi.     This  is  a  cause — 

Old  F.  Oh,  my  dear  boy  !  I  forgive  you  all  your  tricks. 
I  see  something  about  you  now  that  I  can  depend  upon. 
[Trisiram  continues  making  gest2ires.'\ 

Tri.     I  am  for  the  plaintiff  in  this  cauSe — 

Old  F.  Bravo  !  bravo  !  excellent  boy !  I'll  go  and  order 
your  books  directly. 

Tri.     'Tis  done  sir. 

Old  F.     What !  already  ? 

Tri.  I  ordered  twelve  square  feet  of  books,  when  I  first 
thought  of  embracing  the  arduous  profession  of  the  law. 

Old  F.     What  do  you  mean  to  read  by  the  foot  ? 

Tri.  By  the  foot,  sir ;  that  is  the  only  way  to  become  a 
solid  lawyer 

Old  F     Twelv  ■  square  feet  of  learning  ! — Well  — 

Tri.     I  have  likewise  sent  for  a  barber — 

Old  F  A  barber  ! — What !  is  he  to  teach  you  to  shave 
close  2 

Tri.     He  is  to  shave  one  half  of  my  head.  sir. 

Old  F.  You  will  excuse  me  if  I  cannot  perfectly  under- 
stand what  that  has  to  do  with  the  study  of  law. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  203 

Tri.  Dill  you  never  hear  of  Demosthenes,  sir,  the  Athe- 
nian orator  ?  Ho  had  half  his  head  shaved  and  locked  him- 
self up  in  a  (-oal  cellar. 

Old  F.  Ah  !  he  was  perfectly  right  to  lock  himself  up, 
after  having  undergone  such  an  operation  as  that.  He  cer- 
tainly would  have  made  rather  an  odd  figure  abroad. 

Tri.  I  think  I  see  him  now,  awaking  the  dormant  patri- 
otism of  his  countrymen — lightning  in  his  eye,  and  thunder 
in  his  voice — he  pours  forth  a  torrent  of  eloquence,  resistless 
in  its  force — the  throne  of  Philip  trembles  while  he  speaks 
— he  denounces,  and  indignation  fills  the  bosoms  of  his  hear- 
ers— he  exposes  the  impending  danger,  and  every  one  sees 
impending  ruin — he  threatens  the  tyrant,  they  grasp  their 
swords — he  calls  for  vengeance,  their  thirsty  weapons  glitter 
in  the  air,  and  thousands  reverberate  the  cry.  One  soul  an- 
imates a  nation,  and  that  soul  is  the  soul  of  an  orator. 

Old  F  Oh  !  what  a  figure  he'll  make  in  the  King's 
Bench!  But  come,  I  will  tell  you  now  what  my  plan  is, 
and  then  you  will  see  how  happy  this  determination  of  yours 
will  further  it. — You  have  [T/istra}?i  makes  extravagant 
gestures  as  if  speaking'\  often  heard  me  speak  of  my  friend 
Briefwit,  the  barrister — 

Tri.     Who  is  against  me  in  this  cause — 

Old  F.     He  is  a  most  learned  lawyer — 

Tri.     But,  as  I  have  justice  on  my  side — 

Old  F.  The  fellow  doesn't  hear  a  word  I  say  ! — Why, 
Tristram  ! 

Tri.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir;  I  was  prosecuting  my 
studies. 

Old  F.     Now  attend— 

Tri.  As  my  learned  friend  observes, — go  on,  sir,  I  am 
all  attention. 

Old  F.     Well — my  friend,  the  counselor — 

Tri.  Say  my  learned  friend,  if  you  please,  sir.  We  gen- 
tlemen of  the  law  always — 

Old  F.     Well,  Avell,  my  learned  friend — 

Tri.     A  black  patch  ! — 

Old  F     Will  you  listen,  and  be  silent? 

Tri.    I  am  as  mute  as  a  judge. 

Old  F.  My  friend,  I  say,  has  a  ward,  who  is  very  hand- 
some, and  who  has  a  very  handsome  fortune.  She  would 
make  you  a  charming  wife. 

Tri.     This  is  an  action — 

Old  F.     Now,  I  have  hitherto  been  afraid  tc  introduce 


294  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

vou   to  my  friend,  the   barrister,  because   I   thought  your 
lightness  and  his  gravity — 

Tri.     Might  be  plaintiff  and  defendant. 

Old  F.  But  now  you  are  grown  serious  and  steady,  and 
have  resolved  to  pursue  his  profession,  I  will  shortly  bring 
you  together:  you  will  obtain  his  good  opinion,  and  all  the 
rest  follovt^s,  of  course. 

Tri.     A  verdict  in  my  favor. 

Old  F.     You  marry,  and  sit  down  happy  for  life. 

Tri.     In  the  king's  bench. 

Old  F.  Bravo,  ha,  ha.  ha !  But  now  run  to  your  study 
— run  to  your  study,  my  dear  Tristram,  and  I'll  go  and  call 
upon  the  counselor. 

Tri.     I  remove  by  habeas  corpus. 

Old  F.  Pray  have  the  goodness  to  make  haste,  then. 
[Hurrying  him  of.'] 

7ri.  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  this  is  a  cause  -[O/^  Fickle 
pushes  him  off] 

Old  F     The  inimitable  boy !     I  am  now  the  happiest 
father  living.     What  genius  he  has?     He'll  be  lord  chan- 
cellor one  day  or  other,  I  dare  be  sworn — I  am  sure  he  has 
talents !     Oh,  how  I  long  to  see  him  at  the  bar. 
[Enter  Servant.] 

Servant.     Mr.  Briefwit,  sir.     [Exit.] 

Old  F.     Ah,  my  good  friend,  Mr.  Briefwit ! 

Briefwit.     The  aforesaid.     [^Shaking  hands.] 

Old  F     You  are  welcome  to  Whimshall. 
-   Bri.     Whimshall — the  locus  in  quo — good. 

Old  F  This  is  all  right;  this  gives  me  an  opportunity 
of  talking  to  you  a  little. 

Bri.     Consult — take  an  opinion — good. 

Old  F  Come,  I'll  introduce  you  to  my  son.  What  say 
you,  sir? 

Bri.     Good. 

Old  F  Good — ay,  I  hope  so.  I  have  to  tell  you,  that 
my  son  is  one  of  the  most  serious,  studious  young  men 
living, 

Bri.  Id  certum  est  quod  certum  reddi  potest:  vulgarly, 
in  the  proverb,  "  the  proof  of  the  pudding  is  in  the  eating." 

Old  F.     Always  at  his  books. 

B?'i.     Good. 

Old  F  And  what  now,  what,  of  all  things,  do  you  think 
employs  his  mind  ?  [Briefwit  looks  at  him  without  speak- 
ing.]    Come,  guess  now  ;   what  do  you  think  he  reads  ? 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  295 

Bri.     lAfter  a  pause.]     Books. 

Old  F.  You  are  not  far  from  the  mark  there,  old  Cau- 
tion ;  he  does  read  books — he  studies  the  law. 

Bri      Dat  operam  legibus  Anglke — good 

Old  F.  Ay,  I  thought  you  would  say  so.  The  law  is  a 
fine  profession,  is  it  not  ?  I  am  sure  I  have  a  specimen  be- 
fore me  of  what  the  law  will  do  for  a  man. 

Bri.     Hum  !  it  will  do  for  a  man— good. 

Old  F.  I  knew  you  would  be  doubly  anxious  about  this 
match,  between  your  ward  and  him,  when  you  heard  of  his 
having  embraced  that  profession. 

Bri.     Hum ! 

Old  F.     Conversalion  fatigues  you. 

Bri.     Non  liquet — it  appeareth  not. 

Old  F.  And  when  you  do  speak,  there's  no  understand- 
ing you.  [Aside.  Brief  ivit  reads  Ids  papers.]  A  very  en- 
tertaining companion,  truly.     Pray,  sir,  read. out. 

Bri.  [Looks  suspiciously  at  him,  omd  pockets  Ids  papers^ 
Good. 

Old  F.  So  good  that  you  seem  determined  to  keep  it  all 
to  yourself.  Come,  we'll  go  and  see  my  boy,  if  you  please ; 
it's  a  pity  to  disturb  him  though.  Oh!  he's  so  studious 
5''0u'll  be  delighted  with  him — so  steady — so  like  your- 
self, he  will  talk  to  you  in  your  own  way.  [Going,  he 
stojjs.]  I  beg  pardon,  the  law  takes  precedence  of  every 
profession. 

Bri.     Good.     [Walks  off  with  great  gravity.] 

Old  F.  Very  good,  indeed.  You  certainly  are  one  of 
the  most  pleasant,  agreeable,  facetious,  conversable,  witty, 
and  entertaining  disciples  of  Lycurgus  that  ever  wore  a  wig 
with  two  tails.     [Exit.] 

Scene  2. — Tristram  Fickle's  apartment.  Musical  instruments,  books, 
glooes,  (fee,  all  about  the  room,  iu  disorder.  A  table,  wig  block,  a  law- 
yer's gown  and  wig,  a  regimental  coat,  hat,  and  sword. 

[Sneer  discovered.] 
Sneer.    What's  here  ?     Another  change  ! — Law  books  ! — 
Well,  master  of  mine,  how  long  will  you  continue  in  this 
mind  1     A  gown   and  wig  too !      Why,  here's  a  lawyer's 
whole  stock  in  trade  and   we  may  open  shop  immediately. 
Here  he  is,  as  grave  as  a  judge,  already,  I  declare. 
[ Enter  Tristram.  ] 
Tri.     The  law  !     By  the  law,  how  many  men  reach  the 
highest  preferment ! 


296  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Sne      That  they  do:  the  gallows,  for  instance. 

Tri      Yes;  I  will  study  the  law. 

Sne  Ah,  sir,  you  must  go  through  a  great  many  trials 
then. 

Tri.  I  am  convinced  that  I  possess  great  powers  of  ora 
tory  ;  I'll  prove  it  to  you,  Sneer.  Now,  you  fancy  yourself 
a  judge. 

Sne.     No,  I  don't,  indeed,  sir. 

Tri.  I  mean  that  you  are  to  personate  a  judge:  to  act 
the  part  of  a  judge. 

Sne.     I  am  afraid  I  shall  do  it  very  badly. 

Tri.     I  will  try  you. 

Sne.  No;  if  I  am  to  be  the  judge,  I  must  try  you. 
[^Goes  to  the  back  of  the  stage^  and  brings fo^nvard  an  arm- 
chair.'] 

Tri.  Silence  in  the  court.  Now  you  are  a  judge — I  am 
a  barrister,  going  to  plead  before  you.  These  {pointing  to 
the  audience]  are  the  gentlemen  of  the  jury.  That  wig 
block;  opposite,  is  my  opponent.  [Puts  on  his  gown  and 
wig.] 

Sne.  Stop,  sir,  one  moment,  if  you  please.  If  I  am  to 
be  a  judge,  I  must  have  a  wig,  too  ;  for  what's  a  judge  with- 
out a  wig  ?  [Fetching  a  white  handkerchief  from  the  table  ] 
He's  a  soldier  without  arms,  a  baker  without  an  oven,  or  an 
apothecary  without  a  cane !  Now  if  you  can  fancy  me  a 
judge,  you  can  fancy  this  my  wig.  [Throwing  tJie  hand- 
kerchief over  his  head  J  and  sitting  down  in  a  chair.']  Now, 
let  the  cause  proceed. 

Tri.  My  lord,  my  lord,  the  cause  to  which  I  have  the 
honor  of  claiming  your  lordship's  attention,  is  a  cause  which 
most  materially  interests  all  orders  of  society,  inasmuch  as 
it  is  the  cause  of  violent  heats,  perpetual  broils,  and  smok- 
ings  and  roastings  without  number.  The  cau.se  of  all  these, 
my  lord,  is  coals,  as  I  will  take  upon  myself  by  many  wit- 
nesses of  unquestionable  veracity,  to  prove  to  your  lordship's 
entire  satisfaction.  Coals,  my  lord,  are  brought  all  the  way 
from  Newcastle  for  the  purpose  of  increasing  the  domestic 
comforts  of  the  inhabitants  of  this  great  city,  and  parts  ad- 
jacent. But,  my  lord,  I  believe  no  man  will  be  found  bold 
enough  to  stand  up  in  your  lordship's  presence,  and  declare 
that  it  is  conducive  to  the  comforts  of  an  inhabitant  of  this 
great  city,  or  any  of  the  parts  adjacent,  as  aforesaid,  that 
the  cinders  ashes,  refuse,  or  dust,  to  which  these  coals  are 
burnt  should  be  thrown  into  their  eyes,  to  deprive  them  of 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  207 

one  of  the  choicest  faculties  of  their  nature.  No,  my  lord , 
better  far  that  these  coals  were  left  in  the  pits  from  whence 
they  are  du^ — better  that  the  hands  which  dig  them  should 
drop  off— better  that  the  ships  which  bring  them  should 
founder — better  that  the  wagons  on  which  they  are  drawn 


should  be  burnt — better  that  the  fires  which  consume  them 
should  be  quenched,  than  an  inhabitant  of  this  great  city 
should  have  his  eyes  put  out  by  ashes,  and,  ah  !  ignoble 
thought !  his  mouth  made  into  a  dust  hole. 

Sne.  Very  fine,  indeed,  sir.  Making  a  dust  hole  of  a 
man's  mouth,  is  as  fine  an  idea  as  ever  came  into  a  man's 
head. 

Tri.     Then  you  allow  that  I  am  qualified  for  the  law  ? 

Sne.  Qualified !  1  should  have  thought  you  had  been  at 
it  all  your  life.  Why,  sir.  that  speech  convinces  me  that 
you  are  able  to  confound  all  the  judges  and  jurors  that  ever 
sat  in  Westminster  Hall.  You  see,  sir,  your  opponent  here, 
[^pointing  to  tJie  wig  block.']  has  not  a  word  to  say  for  him- 
self. 

Tri.  Oh !  blessed  moment  when  the  dustman  almost 
blinded  me:  'tis  to  that  circumstance  I  owe  the  discovery 
of  my  talents  for  the  bar. 

Sne.  Ay,  sir  !  At  the  bar  you  must  look  to  have  dust 
thrown  in  your  eyes  sometimes. 

Tri.  Yes,  I  am  determined  no  power  on  earth  shall 
make  me  change  my  mind. 

Sne.     So  you  have  often  said  before.  . 


298  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Tri.  Never  so  firmly  as  I  do  now.  I  am  now  mosl 
absolutely  resolved.     How  do  I  look  in  this  dress,  Sneer? 

Sne.     But  queerish,  I  think,  sir. 

Tri.  That's  awkward,  particularly  as  I  am  to  be  a  lover. 
Fetch  the  looking-glass.  [Sneer  brings  the  glass.'\  I  wish 
it  was  the  custom  to  plead  in  the  old  Ptoman  toga.  These 
trappings  are  rather  ridiculous.  [Looks  in  the  glass.']  Oh, 
hang  it,  I  may  gain  a  suit  in  Westminster  Hall,  but  I  shall 
never  gain  a  suit  with  the  fair. 

Sne.  No  ;  you  must  give  that  suit  over,  if  you  are  to  be 
suited  so.     [Takes  the  looking-glass  to  the  table.] 

Tri.  Give  it  over  !  rather  let  Westminster  Hall  be  in 
flames,  or  inundated  again.  What  do  you  think  of  the  stage, 
Sneer  ? 

Sne.     Admirable  !     Your  person  and  features  must  strike. 

T'ri.     In  Romeo. 

S'fie.     Excellent ! 

Tri.     Take  the  gown  and  wig.     [Throivs  them  off.] 

Sne.     [Puts  them  on  fantastically.]     Brief,  let  me  be. 

Tri.     Now,  my  good  fellow,  do  stand  up  for  Juliet. 

Sne.     I'm  well  dressed  for  the  part ! 

Tri.  Here,  take  this  stool,  and  get  upon  it.  [Sneer  gets 
upon  the  stool.]  "  See  how  she  leans  her  cheek  upon  her 
hand.  Oh,  that  I  were  a  glove  upon  that  hand,  that  I 
might  taste  that  cheek.  Ah  !  she  speaks — yet  she  says 
nothing." 

Sne.  Not  a  syllable.  Come,  I  wish  you  would  make 
haste  and  get  in  at  the  window,  for  I  can't  hold  out  any 
longer. 

Tri.  Come  down,  then,  and  I'll  try  a  soliloquy.  [Sneer 
descends  from  the  stool ^  and  'puts  doivn  the  gown  and  tvig.] 
'•  I  do  remember  an  apothecary" — 

Sne.  Oh,  hang  him,  so  do  I ;  he  blistered  and  bled  me 
till  he  made  me  as  thin  as  a  broomstick.  I  have  reason  to 
remember  him. 

2'ri.  An  apothecary — physic.  How  do  you  like  physic, 
Sneer? 

Sne.  Not  at  all,  sir.  The  sight  of  a  phial,  pill-box,  or 
gallipot,  is  enough  to  throw  me  into  a  fever  at  any  time. 

7Vi.  And  yet,  if  you  had  at  this  moment  a  most  horrible 
colic,  and  I  were  a  physician,  and  were  to  come  to  you,  thus, 
and  after  feeling  your  pulse  and  shaking  my  head,  were  to 
tell  you  that  you  had  not  half  an  hour  to  live,  what  would 
you  say  then  1 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  299 

Sne.  Why,  if  I  had  the  colic,  I  should  make  no  scruple 
of  calling  out  for  a  dram. 

Tri.  Imagine  j^ourself  this  moment  at  death's  door.  1 
am  a  physician — T  am  sent  for  in  haste— I  arrive— I  judge 
of  your  symptoms — I  bleed  you.  Pull  off  your  coat,  and 
let  me  bleed  you.     [^Takcs  Sncer^s  hand.\ 

Sne.     No,  sir  ;   we  may  as  well  fancy  it,  if  you  please. 

Tri.  Well,  I  bleed  you — you  mend  from  that  moment — 
in  a  few  days  you  recover — you  look  on  me  with  gratitude — 
you  are  a  nobleman,  or  a  minister  of  state — you  patronize 
me — the  whole  town  follows  me — I  have  so  much  business 
I  can't  get  through  it — I  have  scarcely  time  to  eat  my  meals, 
or  take  my  needful  rest  Egad !  that  would  be  very  un- 
comfortable, though. 

Hue.  Oh,  very,  sir.  Only  think — just  as  you  are  sitting 
down  to  a  fine  dmner.  with  a  keen  appetite,  Alderman  Goble- 
well  is  taken  with  a  fit  of  the  gout  in  the  stomach,  and  must 
be  cured  before  you  eat  a  morsel. 

Tri.  Oh,  I  could  never  bear  it ;  "  throw  physic  to  the 
dogs,  I'll  none  of  it  I"  One  might  just  as  well  go  for  a  sol- 
dier. 

Sne.     Ay,  and  live  on  gunpowder. 

Tri.  A  soldier  !  a  general  !  Alexander  thei  Great,  Han- 
nibal,. Pompey,  Julius  Caesar,  Wolfe,  Abercrombie,  Welling- 
ton !  These  are  great  names  — they  cut  a  figure  in  the  page 
of  history.  I'll  emulate  their  great  example; — glory,  re- 
nown, honor,  everlasting  fame ;  a  warlike  fury  fills  my 
breast,  and  the  rage  of  ten  thousand  lions  swells  my  bold 
heart.  \Pulh  off  his  coat  and  S7iatches  a  sword.  \  Ha  !  ha ! 
[Flourishing  his  sword. ^ 

Sne.  Mercy  on  me !  would  I  were  out  of  his  way. 
\Aside.'\ 

Tri.     Give  me  my  volunteer  coat  and  hat. 

Sne.     Here.  sir.  [^Fearfully,  and  assisting  to  put  them  on.'\ 

Tri.     Now,  sir,  you  are  an  enemy  in  the  field  of  battle. 

Sne.  Who,  I,  sir  1  No,  sir,  not  I ;  you  know  I'm  on  your 
Bide. 

Tri.  Rascal !  do  you  contradict  me  ?  Say  you  are  an 
enemy,  or  I'll  cleave  you  from  the  crown  of  your  head  to 
the  sole  of  your  foot.     [Attacks  hi?7i.] 

Sne.  0  murder  !  murder  !  murder  !  \_Enter  Barber^  ivith 
shaving  tackle.'] 

Tri.  Ha  !  what,  another  of  the  enemy  !  [^Attacks  tlie 
Barber.] 


iiOO  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Barhe7'.  No,  sir  ;  no  enemy,  sir— I'm  only  a  poor  barber, 
sir,  come  to  shave  your  honor's  head. 

Tri.  A  barber — vile  caitiff!  my  sword  thirsts  for  noblei 
blood  than  thine.  yCiiUthe  wig  block  to  pieces.']  Any  more 
of  ye,  come  on.  [E?iter  Old  Fickle  and  Briefwit.\  Ha ! 
more  of  the  enemy  !  I'm  surrounded  ;  but  I'd  cut  my  way 
through  them,  if  there  were  a  million :  come  on,  dastards. 
\^AUacks  Old  Fickle  and  Briefwit.      The  Barber  runs  off.'] 

Old  F.     What !  is  he  mad  ^ 

Bri.     Non  compos  mentis. 

Sne.  As  mad  as  a  bedlamite,  sir.  [Zhiring  this  time^ 
Tristra9)i  keeps  attacking  Brief ivit^  Old  Fickle^  and  Sneei-.] 

Tri.  I  am  defeated,  routed,  overthrown,  and  forced  to 
quit  the  field ;  and  now  I  will  do  as  many  a  great  general 
has  done  before  me — retreat.     \^Exit.\ 

Old  F.     Oh,  Tristram  !   Tristram  ! 

Bri.     Studious — non  constat. 

Old  F.     Ah  ! 

Bri.     Qiiiet — a  false  return. 

Old  F.     Oh  dear  ! 

Bri.     Steady — error  in  judgment. 

Old  F  Oh,  what,  you  can  open  your  mouth  now! 
IFxit.] 

Bri.     Nonsuited — good — move  the  action  out  of  court 

Sne.  This  poor  fellow  [the  ivig  block]  is  the  greatest  suf- 
ferer ;  he  has  had  a  terrible  thwack  on  the  head,  in  this  af- 
fray, though,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  he  never  opened  his 
mouth  either  on  one  side  or  the  other.     [Exit.] 

Bri.  [^Making  7nemorandums^  Assault  and  battery, 
sword  in  hand — Vi  et  armis,  bodily  fear — [Looks  at  his 
watch] — four  o'clock,  P.  M.    Good  !     [Exit.] 


Touchstnve.    To-morrow  i8  the  ji^yful  day,  Aubrey;  to-morrow  will  we  i)o  mar 
ried.— ./2s  You  lAkc  It. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  301 


XXIL— FROM  THE  CLANDESTINE  MARRIAGE.— (7o/ma»  and 
Garrick. 


MR.  STERLING SIR    JOHN    MELVILLE. 

\_Enter  Sterling  and  Melville.'] 

Sterling.  And  now,  sir.  I  am  entirely  at  your  service. 
What  are  your  commands  with  me,  Sir  John  ? 

Sir  John.  After  having  carried  the  negotiation  between 
our  families  to  &o  great  a  length ;  after  having  assented  so 
readily  to  all  your  proposals,  as  well  as  received  so  many  in- 
stances of  your  cheerful  compliance  with  the  demands  made 
on  our  part.  I  am  extremely  concerned,  Mr.  Sterling,  to  be 
the  involuntary  cause  oi  diUj  uneasiness. 

Ster.  Uneasiness !  what  uneasiness  ?  AVhere  business 
is  transacted  as  it  ought  to  be.  and  the  parties  understand 
one  another,  there  can  be  no  uneasiness.  You  agree,  on  such 
and  such  conditions,  to  receive  my  daughter  for  a  wife ;  on 
the  same  conditions,  I  agree  to  receive  you  as  a  son-in  law ; 
and  as  to  all  the  rest,  it  follows  of  course,  you  know,  as  reg- 
ularly as  the  payment  of  a  bill,  after  acceptance. 

Sir  J.  Pardon  me,  sir,  more  uneasiness  has  arisen  than 
you  are  aware  of  I  am  myself,  at  this  instant,  in  a  state  of 
inexpressible  embarrassment ;  Miss  Sterling  I  know,  is  ex- 
tremely disconcerted,  too  ;  and  unless  you  will  oblige  me 
with  the  assistance  of  your  friendship,  I  foresee  the  speedy 
progress  of  discontent  and  animosity  through  the  whole 
family. 

Ster.  Why  !  what  is  all  this?  I  don't  understand  a  sin- 
gle syllable. 

Sir  J.  In  one  word,  then,  it  will  be  absolutely  impossible 
.or  me  to  fulfil  my  engagements  in  regard  to  Miss  Sterling 

Ster.  How,  Sir  John  !  Do  you  mean  to  put  an  affront 
upon  my  family?     What,  refuse  to — 

Sir  J.  Be  assured,  sir,  that  I  neither  mean  to  affront  nor 
forsake  your  family.  My  only  fear  is,  that  you  should  de- 
sert me ;  for  the  whole  happiness  of  my  life  depends  on  my 
being  connected  with  your  family,  by  the  nearest  and  ten- 
derest  ties  in  the  world. 

Ster.  Why,  did  you  not  tell  m^e  but  a  moment  ago,  that 
it  was  absolutely  impossible  for  you  to  marry  my  daughter  '2 

Sir  J.     True.     But  you  have  another  daughter,  sir. 

Sler.     Well ! 

26 


302  KEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUF.R. 

Sir  J.  Who  has  ol)tained  the  most  absolute  dominion 
over  my  heart.  I  have  already  declared  my  passion  to  her : 
nay,  Miss  Sterling  herself  is  also  apprised  of  it ;  and  if  you 
will  but  give  a  sanction  to  my  present  addresses,  the  uii 
common  merit  of  Miss  Sterling  will  no  doubt  recommend 
her  to  a  person  of  equal,  if  not  superior  rank  to  myself;  and  oui 
families  may  still  be  allied  by  my  union  with  Miss  Fanny. 

Ster.  Mighty  fine,  truly  !  Why,  what  the  plague  do  you 
make  of  us,  Sir  John?  Do  you  come  to  market  for  my 
daughters,  like  servants  to  a  statute-fair  1  Do  you  think 
that  I  will  suffer  you  or  any  man  in  the  world,  to  come  into 
my  house,  like  the  grand  seignior,  and  throw  the  handker- 
chief first  to  one  and  to  t'other,  just  as  he  pleases?  Do  you 
think  I  drive  a  kind  of  African  slave-trade  with  thein,  and — 

Sir  J.  A  moment's  patience,  sir.  Nothing  but  the  ex- 
cess of  my  passion  for  Miss  Fanny,  should  have  induced  me 
to  take  any  step  that  had  the  least  appearance  of  disrespect 
to  any  part  of  your  family :  and  even  now,  I  am  desirous  to 
atone  for  my  transgression,  by  making  the  most  adequate 
compensation  that  lies  in  my  power. 

Ster.  Compensation  I  what  compensation  can  you  possi- 
bly make  in  such  a  case  as  this.  Sir  John  ? 

Sir  J.  Come,  come,  Mr.  Sterling,  I  know  you  to  be  a  man 
of  sense,  a  man  of  business,  a  man  of  the  world.  I'll  deal 
frankly  with  you  ;  and  you  shall  see  that  T  don't  desire  a 
change  of  measures  for  my  own  gratification,  without  en- 
deavoring to  make  it  advantageous  to  you. 

Ster.  What  advantage  can  your  inconstancy  be  to  me, 
Sir  John  ? 

Sir  J.  I'll  tell  you,  sir.  You  know  that  by  the  articles 
at  present  subsisting  between  us,  on  the  day  of  my  marriage 
with  Miss  Sterling,  you  agree  to  pay  down  the  gross  sum  of 
eighty  thousand  pounds. 

Ster      Well ! 

Sir  J.  Now,  if  you  will  but  consent  to  my  waiving  that 
marriage — 

Ster.  1  agree  to  your  waiving  that  marriage  !  Impossi- 
ble, Sir  John  !     Impossible  ! 

Sir  J.  I  hope  not,  sir,  as,  on  my  part,  I  will  agree  to 
waive  my  right  to  thirty  thousand  pounds  of  the  fortune  I 
was  to  receive  with  her. 

Ster.     How!  how!     Thirty  thousand,  d'ye  say? 

Sir  J.  Yes,  sir ;  and  accept  of  Miss  Fanny  with  fifty 
thousand,  instead  of  fourscore. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  808 

Ster.     Fifty  thousand — [rausing.'] 

Sir  J.     Instead  of  fourscore 

Ster.  Why,  why,  there  may  be  something-  in  that.  Let 
me  see.  Fanny  with  fifty  thousand,  instead  of  Betsey  with 
fourscore.  Let  me  see.  Why.  to  do  you  justice,  Sir  John, 
there  is  something  fair  and  open  in  your  proposal ;  and  since 
I  find  you  do  not  mean  to  put  an  affront  upon  the  family — 

Sir  J.  Nothing-  was  ever  farther  from  my  thoughts,  Mr. 
Sterling.  And  after  all,  the  whole  affair  is  nothing  extraor- 
dinary ;  such  things  happen  every  day;  and  as  the  world 
has  only  heard  generally  of  a  treaty  between  the  families, 
when  this  marriage  takes  place,  nobody  will  be  the  wiser,  if 
we  have  but  discretion  enough  to  keep  our  own  counsel. 

Ster.  True,  true  ;  and  since  you  only  transfer  from  one 
girl  to  the  other,  it  is  no  more  than  transferring  so  much 
stock,  you  know. 

Sir  J.     Exactly  !     The  very  thing  I 

Ster.  Odso  !  I  had  quite  forgot.  We  are  reckoning  with- 
out our  host  here.     There  is  another  difficulty. 

Sir  J     You  alarm  me.     What  can  that  be  ? 

Ster.  I  can't  stir  a  step  in  this  business,  without  consult- 
ing my  sister,  Heidelburg.  The  family  has  very  great  ex- 
pectations from  her,  and  we  must  not  give  her  any  offense. 

Sir  J.  But  if  you  come  into  this  measure,  surely  she  will 
be  so  kind  as  to  consent.  ^ 

Ster.  I  don't  know  that ;  Betsey's  her  darling.,  and  I 
can't  tell  how  far  she  may  resent  any  slight  that  seems  to 
be  offered  to  her  favorite  niece.  However,  I'll  do  the  best  I 
can  for  you.  You  shall  go  and  break  the  matter  to  her  first , 
and  by  the  time  I  may  suppose  that  your  rhetoric  has  pre- 
vailed on  her  to  listen  to  reason,  I  will  step  in  to  reinforce 
your  arguments. 

Sir  J.  I'll  fly  to  her  immediately.  You  promise  me  your 
assistance  ? 

Ster.     I  do. 

Sir  J.  Ten  thousand  thanks  for  it '  And,  oh !  success 
attend  me.     [Going.'] 

Ster.  Hark  ye,  Sir  John  !  [Sir  John  returns.^  Not  a 
word  of  the  thirty  thousand  pounds,  to  my  sister. 

Sir  J  0,  I  am  dumb,  I  am  dumb,  sir,  depend  on't. 
YGoing.] 

Ster.     You'll  remember  it  is  thirty  thousand  ? 

Sir  J     To  be  sure  I  do. 

Ster.      But,  Sir  John  !  one  thing  more.     \Sir  John  re 


V.' 


304  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

turns.]  My  lord  must  know  nothing  of  this  stroke  of 
friendship  between  us. 

Sir  J.  Not  for  the  world  !  Let  me  alone  !  let  me  alone 
for  that !     {^Offering  to  go.\ 

Ster.  [Holding  him.]  And  when  everything  is  agreed, 
we  must  give  each  other  a  bond  to  be  held  fast  to  the  bargain. 

Sir  J.  To  be  sure.  A  bond,  by  all  means  ;  a  bond,  oi 
whatever  you  please.     \^Exit  kast/Uy.'] 

Ster.  I  should  have  thought  of  more  conditions.  He's  in 
a  humor  to  give  me  everything.  Why,  what  mere  children 
are  your  fellows  of  quality ;  they  cry  for  a  plaything  one 
minute,  and  throw  it  by  the  next !  As  changeable  as  the 
weather,  and  as  uncertain  as  the  stocks.  Special  fellows  to 
drive  a  iDargain  !  and  yet  they  are  to  take  care  of  the  inte- 
rest of  the  nation,  truly  !  Here  does  this  whirligig  man  of 
fashion  offer  to  give  up  thirty  thousand  pounds  in  hard  mo- 
ney, with  as  much  indifference  as  if  it  were  a  China  orange, 
or  a  sugar-plum.  By  this  mortgage,  I  shall  have  a  hold  on 
his  terra  firma:  and  if  he  wants  more  money,  as  he  certainly 
will,  let  him  have  children  by  my  daughter  or  no,  I  shall 
have  his  whole  estate  in  a  net  for  the  benefit  of  my  family. 
Well,  thus  it  is,  that  the  children  of  citizens  who  have  ac- 
quired fortunes,  prove  persons  of  fashion  ;  and  thus  it  is,  that 
persons  of  fashion,  who  have  ruined  their  fortunes,  reduce 
the  next  generation  to  cits.     \^Exit.'\ 


XXIir.— FROM  EDUCATIOK— ifor^on. 

DAMPER TEMPLETON MRS.  TEMPLETON SERVANT. 

[^Enter  Mr.  Damper  and  Servant.] 

Damper.     Is  Mr.  Templeton  within  ? 

Servant.     I'll  thank  you  for  your  name,  sir. 

Damp      Mr.  Damper. 

Serv.     He  is  not,  sir. 

Damp.     F'ogh,  pogh  !     I'm  his  intimate  friend. 

Serv.  0  no,  sir,  there  you'll  pardon  me.  I  keep  a  most 
accurate  list  of  my  master's  friends.     [Showing  a  list.] 

Bujnp.  Indeed  !  a  convenient  sort  of  reference ;  for,  to 
know  friends,  as  times  go,  is  no  very  easy  mattej*.     Hark 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  306 

you,  fellow,  tell  your  master  that  Mr.  Damper,  from  Lom- 
bard-street, a  stranger  to  his  present  fashionable  nomencla- 
ture, but  one  who  formerly  was  in  his  books,  insists  on  see- 
ing him  instantly. 

Serv.  Sir,  I  shall  give  in  your  name  :  but  making  speech- 
es is  not  in  my  department. 

Damp.  Indeed !  then  I  presume  you  are  what  is  called 
a  figure  footman,  and  hired  by  measure — \Servant  boivs] — 
six  feet  of  more  accomplished  assurance  I  never  looked  up  to. 

Serv.     You  are  pleased  ^to  flatter. 

Damp.  But  if  the  distance  across  your  shoulders  was  not 
included  in  the  estimate,  here  is  a  measure  [shoiaing  his 
cane]  which  will  in  one  moment  ascertain  it,  unless  you  ex- 
actly obey  my  orders.  \Exit  Servant.']  Bad  memories,  in- 
deed, when  friends  cannot  be  remembered  without  a  book. 
When  in  London,  and  in  active  life,  he  was  above  these  mod- 
ern fopperies.  But  a  young,  gay  wife,  sadly  alters  your 
middle-aged  gentleman. 

[Enter  Mr.  Templetoti  and  Servant.] 

Damp.     Templeton  !     I'm  heartily  glad  to  see  you. 

Templeton.  What !  My  old  partner.  Damper  !  welcome, 
thrice  welcome,  my  worthiest  friend. 

Damp.  [To  Servant.]  Do  you  hear  that,  puppy?  his 
worthiest  friend  !  book  me  this  instant,  or  I'll  cane  you. 
[Exit  Servant.]  You  look  tolerably  hearty  and  cheerful — 
but— 

Tern.  But !  oh,  old  Damper  still,  I  see.  When  will  you 
leave  your  vile  buts.  and  doubts  and  perhapses  1 

Damp.  When  my  friend's  conduct  no  longer  requires 
them.     But,  you  are  married  again,  I  hear. 

I'em.     Yes,  I  have  tried  it  once  more — but  — 

Damp.     But  what,  pray  ? 

Tern.  I  have  got  a  wife  who  has  had  a  perverted  modern 
education  ;  for  in  our  stylish  manufactories  of  female  attain- 
ments, the  muses  and  graces  so  struggle  for  precedency,  that 
the  unassuming  domestic  virtues  are  jostled  into  a  corner 
and  from  this  telescope  of  fashion  issues  an  abundant  supply 
of  female  poets,  attitudinarians.  philosophizing  daughters, 
waltzing  wives,  and  infidel  mothers. 

Damp.     The  effects  on  Mrs.  Templeton — 

Te7)i.  Are  an  active  taste  for  expense,  with  a  decided 
aversion  to  all  household  duties  ;  and  thus,  while  we  abound 
in  economical  theories,  we  are  ruined  by  unthrifty  practices. 
So  that  in  Mrs.  Templeton's  room  you  may  see  the  '  Lady's 


306 


NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


Best  Companion"  entombed  in  the  dust  it  aims  to  sweep 
away,  and  a  satirical  spider  has  drawn  his  web  over  the 
'•  Complete  Housewife."'  But  here  she  comes  ;  you  shall  see 
for  yourself. 

Mrs.  Templeton.  [WiihoiU.]  Pray  don't  tease  me  now  ; 
tell  them  all  to  be  sure  and  come  to-morrow.  [Eitters]  My 
dear  Mr.  Templeton,  you  will  be  delighted  with  the  guest 
your  son  Vincent  has  introduced.  Such  commanding  tal- 
ents, such  superior  taste.  He  has  found  fault  with  every- 
thing he  has  seen,  and  has  pronounced  the  house  and  grounds 
so  detestable,  that  I  can't  endure  the  sight  of  them. 

7hn.     I  ought  to  be  much  obliged  to  him. 

Mrs.  T.  We've  laid  such  delightful  plans.  The  house 
is  to  come  down,  the  farm  to  be  parked,  and  the  meadows 
to  be  put  under  water.  Now,  my  love,  you'll  have  no  trou- 
ble, but — 

Tern.     The  trouble  of  paying  for  it. 

Mrs.  T.  0,  but  he  says  people  of  fashion  never  think  of 
that.     So  I  shall  give  orders  to  begin. 

Tern.     When,  my  dear? 

Mrs.  T.     0,  to  morrow.     But  who  is  that  old  man  ? 

Tern.  My  late  partner.  And  I  am  happy  to  afford  you 
the  gratification  of  making  welcome  my  friend  Damper. 

Mrs.  T.  I  have  never  seen  his  name  on  our  list ;  but  my 
tall  man  is  shockingly  inaccurate.  Do  you  know,  last  win- 
ter, sir,  he  told  me  I  was  quite  intimate  with  Lady  Para- 
mount; but  on  making  her  a  visit  the  old  Goth  denied  ever 
having  heard  of  me.  But  I  must  away.  I've  a  thousand 
things  to  arrange  for  to-morrow.  I  hope  I  may  look  forward, 
sir.  to  a  long  visit.     [ExU] 

Damp.  Bid  your  house  of  the  new-comer  immediately. 
Here  is  another  instance  of  the  blessed  effects  of  modern 
education,  which  has  armed  every  witling  with  the  weap- 
ons of  personal  satire.  For  now,  cities  are  visited,  tours 
are  made,  not  to  paint  the  world's  beauties,  but  to  caricature 
its  pitiable  deformities  ;  not  to  cull  the  sweets  of  nature,  but 
to  collect  the  poison  of  defamation  ;  not  to  bestow  instruc- 
tion, but  to  purvey  the  insatiable  appetite  of  slander,  and 
teach  the  rising  generation  to  prey  on  garbage.     [Exeunt.] 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  30*1 

XXIV.— FROM  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCA-^ J) AL.—Sheridan. 

SIP*.    PETER    TEAZLE LADY    TEAZLE.     '' 

Sir  Peter  Teazle.  When  an  old  bachelor  marries  a  young 
wife,  what  is  he  to  expect  ?  'Tis  not  above  six  months  since 
my  Lady  Teazle  made  me  the  happiest  of  men,  and  I  have 
been  the  most  miserable  dog  ever  since.  We  tifted  a  little 
going  to  church,  and  fairly  quarreled  before  the  bells  were 
done  ringing.  In  less  than  a  month,  I  was  nearly  choked 
with  gall,  and  had  lost  every  satisfaction  in  life  before  my 
friends  had  done  wishing  me  joy.  1  am  laughed  at  by  her, 
and  made  the  jest  of  all  my  acquaintance.  And  yet,  the  worst 
of  it  is,  I  am  afraid  I  love  her.  or  I  should  never  bear  all 
this ;  but  I  am  determined  never  to  be  weak  enough  to  let 
her  know  it.  But  here  she  comes  apparently  in  mighty 
good  humor  ;  I  wish  I  could  tease  her  into  loving  me  a 
little 

\^Enter  Lady  Teazle.'] 

Lady  Teazle.  What's  the  matter,  Sir  Peter  ?  You  seem 
to  be  out  of  humor. 

Sir  P.  Ah  !  Lady  Teazle,  it  is  in  your  power  to  put  me 
in  good  humor  at  any  time. 

L.  Teaz.  Is  it  ?  Vn\  glad  of  it,  for  I  want  you  to  be  in 
a  monstrous  good  humor  now.  Come,  do  be  good  humored 
and  let  me  have  a  hundred  pounds. 

Sir  P.  What  the  plague  !  Can't  I  be  in  good  humor 
without,  paying  for  it  i  But  look  always  thus,  and  you 
shall  have  two  hundred  pounds.  Be  satisfied  with  that  sum 
now,  and  you  shall  not  much  longer  have  it  in  your  power 
to  reproach  me  for  not  making  you  a  proper  settlement.  I 
intend  shortly  to  surprise  you. 

L.  Teaz.  Do  you  ?  You  can't  think.  Sir  Peter,  how 
good  humor  becomes  you.  Now  you  look  just  as  you  did 
beibre  I  married  you. 

Sir  P.     Do  I,  indeed  ? 

L.  Teaz.  Don't  you  remember  when  you  used  to  walk 
with  me  under  the  elms  and  tell  me  stories  of  what  a  gal- 
lant you  were  in  your  youth  and  asked  me  if  I  could  like 
an  old  fellow  who  could  deny  me  nothing  ? 

Sir  P.  Ay,  and  you  were  so  attentive  and  obliging  to 
me  then. 

L.  Teaz.     To  be  sure  I  was,  and  used  to  take  your  part 


308  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

against  all  my  acquaintance  ;  and  when  my  cousin  Mary 
used  to  laugh  at  me  for  thinking  of  marrying  a  man  old 
enough  to  be  my  father,  and  call  you  an  ugly,  stiff,  formal 
old  bachelor,  I  contradicted  her,  and  said  I  did  not  think 
you  so  ugly  by  any  means  and  that  I  dared  say  you  would 
make  a  good  sort  of  a  husband. 

Si?'  P.  That  was  very  kind  of  you.  Well,  and  you  were 
not  mistaken;  you  have  found  it  so,  have  not  you?  But 
shall  we  always  live  thus  happy? 

L.  Teaz.  With  all  my  heart.  I  don't  care  how  soon  we 
leave  off  quarreling,  provided  you  will  own  you  are  tired 
first. 

Sir  F.     With  all  my  heart. 

L.  Teaz.  Then  we  shall  be  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long, 
and  never,  never,  never  quarrel  more. 

Sir  P.  Never,  never,  never :  and  let  our  future  contest 
be.  who  shall  be  most  obliging. 

L.  Teaz.     Ay! 

Sir  P.  But,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  my  love,  indeed  you 
must  keep  a  strict  watch  over  your  temper,  for  you  know, 
my  dear,  that  in  all  our  disputes  and  quarrels,  you  always 
begin  first. 

L.  Teaz.  No,  no,  my  dear  Sir  Peter,  'tis  always  you  that 
begin. 

Sir  P.     No,  no,  no  such  thing. 

L.  Teaz.  Have  a  care  ;  this  is  not  the  way  to  live  happy, 
if  you  fly  out  thus. 

Sir  P.     No.  no,  'tis  you. 

L.  Teaz.     No,  'tis  you. 

Sir  P.     Madam,  I  say  'tis  you. 

L.  Teaz.  Law !  I  never  saw  such  a  man  in  my  life ;  just 
what  my  cousin  Mary  told  me. 

Sir  P.  Your  cousin  Mary  is  a  forward,  saucy,  imperti- 
nent minx. 

Li.  Teaz.  You  are  a  very  great  bear  to  abuse  my  rela- 
tions. 

Sir  P.  But  I  am  well  enough  served  for  marrying  you, 
a  pert,  forward,  rural  coquette,  who  had  refused  half  the 
honest  squires  in  the  country. 

L  Teaz.  I  am  sure  I  was  a  great  fool  for  marrying  you, 
a  stiff  old  bachelor,  who  was  unmarried  at  fifty,  because  no- 
body would  have  you. 

Sir  P.  You  were  very  glad  to  have  me ;  you  never  had 
such  an  offer  before. 


COMIC    A\D    AMUSIXG.  i^09 

L.  Teaz.  0  yes  I  had :  there  was  Sir  Tivey  Terrier, 
whose  estate  was  full  as  good  as  yours  and  he  has  broken 
his  neck  since  we  were  married. 

S>ir  P.  Very  well  very  well,  madam,  you're  an  ungrate- 
ful woman:  and  may  plagues  light  on  me  if  I  ever  try  to 
be  friends  with  you  again ;  you  shall  have  a  separate  main- 
tenance. 

L.  Teaz.     By  all  means  a  separate  maintenance. 

Sir  P.  Very  well,  madam  ;  oh,  very  well.  Ah,  madam, 
you  shall  rue  this — I'll  have  a  divorce. 

L   Teaz.     A  divorce  ! 

Sir  P.  Ay,  madam ;  I'll  make  an  example  of  myself 
for  the  benefit  of  all  old  bachelors. 

L.  Teaz.  Well  well,  Sir  Peter ;  be  it  so.  I  see  you  are 
going  to  be  in  a  passion,  so  I'll  leave  you ;  and  when  you 
come  properly  to  your  temper,  we  shall  be  the  happiest  cou- 
ple in  Yhe  world,  and  never,  never,  never  quarrel  more. 

[Exeunt. '\ 


XXV. — Cihher  and  Vanhurg. 
LADY    GRACE LADY    TOWNLY. 

Lady  Townly.  Oh,  my  dear  Lady  Grace  !  how  could 
you  leave  me  so  unmercifully  alone  all  this  while  ! 

Lady  Grace.     I  thought  my  lord  had  been  with  you. 

Lady  T.  Why  yes — and  therefore  I  wanted  your  relief; 
for  he  has  been  in  such  a  fluster  here — 

Lady  G.     Bless  me  !  for  what  ^ 

Lady  T.  Only  our  usual  breakfast;  we  have  each  of 
us  had  our  dish  of  matrimonial  comfort  this  morning — we 
have  been  charming  company. 

Lady  G.  I  am  mighty  glad  of  it:  sure  it  must  be  a  vast 
happiness  when  man  and  wife  can  give  themselves  the  same 
turn  of  conversation  ! 

Lady  T.     Oh  the  prettiest  thing  in  the  world  ! 

Lady  G.  Now  I  should  be  afraid,  that  where  two  peo- 
ple are  every  day  together  so,  they  must  often  be  in  want 
of  something  to  talk  upon 

Lady  T.     Oh.  my  dear    you  are  the  most  mistaken   in 


I>10  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

the  world  !  Married  people  have  things  to  talk  of,  child, 
that  never  entered  into  the  imagination  of  others.  Why, 
here's  my  lord  and  I.  now,  we  have  not  been  married  above 
two  short  years,  you  know,  and  we  have  already  eight  or 
ten  things  constantly  in  bank,  that  whenever  we  want  com- 
pany, we  can  take  up  any  one  of  them  for  two  hours  to- 
gether, and  the  subject  never  the  flatter  ;  nay,  if  we  have 
occasion  for  it,  it  will  be  as  fresh  next  day  too,  as  if  it  was 
the  first  hour  it  entertained  us. 

Lady  G.     Certainly  that  must  be  vastly  pretty. 

Lady  T.  Oh,  there's  no  life  like  it  !  Why,  t'other  day 
for  example,  when  you  dined  abroad,  my  lord  and  I,  after  a 
pretty  cheerful  tele  a  tele  meal,  sat  us  down  by  the  fireside, 
in  an  easy,  indolent,  pick-tooth  Rind  of  way,  for  about  a 
quarter  of  an  hour,  as  if  we  had  not  thought  of  any  others 
being  in  the  room.  At  last,  stretching  himself  and  ^yawn- 
ing— My  dear,  says  he — aw — you  came  home  very  late  last 
night.  'Twas  but  just  turned  of  two,  says  I.  I  was  in  bed 
— aw — by  eleven,  says  he.  80  you  are  every  night,  says  I. 
Well,  says  he.  I  am  amazed  you  can  sit  up  so  late.  How 
can  you  be  amazed,  says  I,  at  a  thing  that  happens  so  often  % 
Upon  which  we  entered  into  a  conversation  :  and  though 
this  is  a  point  that  has  entertained  us  above  fifty  times  al- 
ready, we  always  find  so  many  pretty  new  things  to  say 
upon  it,  that  I  believe  it  will  last  as  long  as  we  live. 

Lady  G.  But  pray,  in  such  sort  of  family  dialogues, 
(though  extremely  well  for  passing  the  time.)  doesn't  there 
now  and  then  enter  some  little  witty  sort  of  bitterness? 

Lady  T.  Oh,  yes  !  which  does  not  do  amiss  at  all.  A 
smart  repartee,  with  a  zest  of  recrimination  at  the  head  of 
il,  makes  the  prettiest  sherbet.  Ay,  ay.  if  we  did  not  mix 
a  little  of  the  acid  with  it,  a  matrimonial  society  would  be 
so  luscious,  that  nothing  but  a  sentimental  old  prude  would 
be  able  to  bear  it. 

Jjady  G.  Well,  certainly  you  have  the  most  elegant 
(aste — 

Lady  T.  Though,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear.  I  rather 
think  we  sque(>zed  a  little  too  much  lemon  into  it  this  bout ; 
for  it  grew  so  sour  at  last  that,  I  think,  I  almost  told  him 
he  was  a  fool :  and  he  again  talked  something  oddly  of— 
turning  me  out  of  doors. 

Lady  G.     Oh  '  have  a  care  of  that. 

Ijady  T.  Nay.  if  he  should,  I  may  thank  my  own  wise 
father  foi  it 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  311 

Lady  G.     How  so  ? 

Lady  T.  Why,  when  my  good  lord  first  opened  his  hon- 
')rable  trenches  before  me,  my  unaccountable  papa,  in  whose 
hands  I  then  was,  gave  me  up  at  discretion. 

Lady  G.     How  do  you  mean  ? 

Lady  T.  He  said  the  wives  of  this  age  were  come  to 
that  pass,  that  he  would  not  desire  even  his  own  daughter 
should  be  trusted  with  pin  money ;  so  that  my  whole  train 
of  separate  inclinations  are  left  entirely  at  the  mercy  of  a 
husband's  odd  humors. 

Lady  G.  Why,  that,  indeed,  is  enough  to  make  a  woman 
of  spirit  look  about  her. 

Lady  T.  Nay,  but  to  be  serious,  my  dear,  what  would 
you  really  have  a  woman  do  in  my  case  1 

Lady  G.  W^hy,  if  I  had  a  sober  husband,  as  you  have, 
I  would  make  myself  the  happiest  woman  in  the  world,  by 
being  as  sober  as  he. 

Lady  T.  Oh.  you  wicked  thing  !  how  can  you  tease  one 
at  this  rate,  when  you  know  he  is  so  very  sober,  that  (ex- 
cept giving  me  money)  there  is  not  one  thing  in  the  world 
he  can  do  to  please  me  ?  And  I.  at  the  same  time,  partly 
by  nature,  and  partly  perhaps  by  keeping  the  best  company, 
do  with  my  soul  love  almost  everything  he  hates.  I  doat 
upon  assemblies ;  my  heart  bounds  at  a  ball ;  and  at  an  op- 
era, I  expire.  Then.  I  love  play  to  distraction;  cards  en- 
chant me,  and  dice  put  "me  out  of  my  little  wits  — dear,  dear 
hazard  ! — Oh.  what  a  flow  of  spirits  it  gives  one  ! — Do  you 
never  play  at  hazard,  child  ? 

Lady  G.  Oh,  never!  I  don't  think  it  sits  well  upon 
women;  there's  something  so  masculine,  so  much  the  air 
of  a  rake  in  it.  You  see  how  it  makes  the  men  swear ; 
and  when  a  woman  is  thrown  into  the  same  passion — 
why— 

Lady  T.  That's  very  true  ;  one  is  a  little  put  to  it,  some- 
times, not  to  make  use  of  the  same  words  to  express  it. 

I^ady  G.  Well — and.  upon  ill  luck,  pray  what  words  are 
you  really  forced  to  make  use  of? 

Lady  T.  Why.  upon  a  very  hard  case,  indeed,  when  a 
sad,  wrong  word,  is  rising  just  to  one's  tongue's  end,  I  give 
a  great  gulp  and  swallow  it. 

I^idy  G.  AVell — and  is  it  not  enough  to  make  you  for- 
swear play  as  long  as  you  live  ? 

Lady  T.     Oh.  yes  ;   I  have  often  forsworn  it. 

Lady  G.     Seriously? 


812  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Lady  T.  Solemnly,  a  thousand  times ;  but  then  one  is 
constantly  forsworn. 

Lady  G.     And  how  can  you  answer  that  ? 

Lady  T.  My  dear,  what  we  say.  when  we  are  loser,  we 
look  upon  to  be  no  more  binding  than  a  lover's  oath,  or  a 
great  man's  promise.  But  I  beg  pardon,  child ;  T  should 
not  lead  you  so  far  into  the  world;  you  are  a  prude,  and 
design  to  live  soberly. 

Lady  G.  Why,  I  confess  my  nature  and  my  education 
do  in  a  good  degree  incline  me  that  way. 

Lady  T.  Well,  how  a  woman  of  spirit  (for  you  don't 
want  that,  child.)  can  dream  of  living  soberly,  is  to  me  in- 
conceivable; for  you  will  marry,  I  suppose? 

Lady  G.     I  can't  tell,  but  I  may. 

Lady  T.     And  won't  you  live  in  town  % 

Lady  G.     Half  the  year.  I  should  like  it  very  well. 

Lady  T.  My  stars !  and  you  would  really  live  in  Lon- 
don half  the  year,  to  be  sober  in  it  ? 

Lady  G.     Why  not? 

Lady  T.  Why,  can't  you  as  well  go  and  be  sober  in 
the  country  ? 

Lady  G.     So  I  would — t'other  half  year. 

I^ady  T.  And,  pray,  what  comfortable  scheme  of  life 
would  you  form  now  for  your  summer  and  winter  sober  en- 
tertainments? 

Lady  G.  A  scheme  that  I  think  might  very  well  con- 
tent us. 

Lady  T.     Oh,  of  all  things,  let's  hear  it. 

Lady  G.  Why,  in  summer,  I  could  pass  my  leisure 
hours  in  riding,  in  reading,  walking  by  a  canal,  or  sitting 
at  the  end  of  it  under  a  great  tree;  in  dressing,  dining, 
chatting  with  an  agreeable  friend  ;  perhaps  hearing  a  little 
music,  taking  a  dish  of  tea.  or  a  game  of  cards,  soberly; 
managing  my  family,  looking  into  its  accounts,  playing 
with  my  children,  if  I  had  any;  or  in  a  thousand  other  in- 
nocent amusements — soberl  :  and  possibly,  by  these  means. 
I  might  induce  my  husband  to  be  as  sober  as  myself 

Lady  T.  Well  my  dear  thou  art  an  astonishing  crea- 
ture !  for  sure  such  primitive  antediluvian  notions  of  life 
have  not  been  in  any  head  these  thousand  years. — Under  a 
great  tree  ! — ha  !  ha !  ha ! — But  I  beg  we  may  have  the  sober 
town-scheme,  too,  for  I  am  charmed  with  the  country  one 

Lady  G.  You  shall  and  I'll  try  to  stick  to  my  sobriety 
there,  too. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  -^13 

Lady  T.  Well,  though  I  am  sure  it  will  give  me  the  va- 
pors, I  must  hear  it. 

Lady  G.  Why,  then,  for  fear  of  your  fainting,  madam, 
I  will  first  so  far  come  into  the  fashion,  that  I  would  never 
be  dressed  out  of  it — but  still  it  should  be  soberly;  for  I 
can't  think  it  any  disgrace  to  a  woman  of  my  private  for- 
tune, not  to  wear  her  lace  as  fine  as  the  wedding  suit  of  a 
first  duchess :  though  there  is  one  extravagance  I  would 
venture  to  come  up  to. 

Lady  T.     Ay,  now  for  it — 

Lady  G.     I  would  every  day  be  as  clean  as  a  bride. 

Lady  T.  Why,  the  men  say  that's  a  great  step  to  be 
made  one.  Well,  now  you  are  dressed  pray  let's  see  to  what 
purpose ! 

Lady  G.  I  would  visit — that  is,  my  real  friends  ;  but  as 
little  for  form  as  possible.  I  would  go  to  court;  sometimes 
to  an  assembly  ;  nay,  play  at  quadrille  — soberly.  I  would 
see  all  the  good  plays ;  and,  because  'tis  the  fashion,  now 
and  then  go  to  an  opera ;  but  I  would  not  expire  there — for 
fisar  1  should  never  go  again  ;  and  lastly,  I  can't  say,  but  for 
curiosity,  if  I  liked  my  company,  I  might  be  drawn  in  once 
to  a  masquerade  ;  and  this,  I  think,  is  as  far  as  any  woman 
can  go — soberly. 

Lady  T.  Well,  if  it  had  not  been  for  that  last  piece  of 
sobriety,  I  was  just  going  to  call  for  some  cologne  water. 

Lady  G.  Why.  don't  you  think,  with  the  farther  aid  of 
breakfasting,  dining,  taking  the  air,  supping  sleeping,  (not 
to  say  a  word  of  devotion  )  the  four-and-twenty  hours  might 
roll  over  in  a  tolerable  manner? 

Lady  T.  Tolerable  !  Deplorable  I  Why,  child,  au  you 
propose,  is  but  to  endure  life:  now.  I  want  to  enjoy  it. 


DUk.    Give  me  another  horse !  bind  up  my  wounds.—  The  Jipprtntict 

•27 


iil4  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

XXVI.— FROM  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  Ii.AKES.—Cenmvre. 
LORD    EUSTACE FRAMPTON. 

Lord  Eustace.  Well,  my  dear  Frampton,  have  you  se- 
cured your  letters  ? 

Frampton.     Yes,  my  lord,  for  their  rightful  owners. 

Lord  Bust.  As  to  the  matter  of  property,  Frampton,  we 
will  not  dispute  much  about  that.  Necessity,  you  know, 
may  sometimes  render  a  trespass  excusable. 

Pram.  I  am  not  casuist  sufficient  to  answer  you  upon 
that  subject ;  but  this  I  know,  that  you  have  already  tres- 
passed against  the  Jaws  of  hospitality  and  honor,  in  youi 
conduct  towards  Sir  William  Evans  and  his  daughter.  And 
as  your  friend  and  counselor  both,  I  would  advise  you  to 
think  seriously  of  repairing  the  injuries  you  have  committed, 
and  not  increase  your  offense  by  a  farther  violation. 

Lord  Eust.  It  is  actually  a  pity  you  were  not  bred  to 
the  bar.  Ned  ;  but  I  have  only  a  moment  to  stay,  and  am 
all  impatience  to  know  if  there  be  a  letter  from  Langwood, 
and  what  he  says. 

Fram.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  afford  you  the  least  infor- 
mation upon  that  subject  my  lord. 

Lord  Eust.  Surely,  I  do  not  understand  you  !  You  said 
you  had  secured  the  letters.     Have  you  not  read  them? 

Fram.  You  have  a  right,  and  none  but  you,  to  ask  me 
such  a  question.  My  weak  compliance  with  your  first  pro- 
posal, relative  to  these  letters  warrants  your  thinking  so 
meanly  of  me.  But  know  my  lord  that  though  my  per- 
sonal affection  for  you  joined  to  my  unhappy  circumstances, 
may  have  betrayed  me  into  actions  unworthy  of  myself,  I 
never  can  forget  that  there  is  a  barrier  fixed  before  the  ex- 
treme of  baseness,  which  honor  will  not  let  me  pass. 

Lord  Eust.  You  will  give  me  leave  to  tell  you.  Mr. 
l^rampton,  that  where  I  lead,  I  think  you  need  not  halt. 

Fram.  You  will  pardon  me,  my  lord  ;  the  consciousness 
of  another  man's  errors,  can  never  be  a  justification  of  our 
own  :  and  poor  indeed  must  that  wretch  be.  who  can  be 
satisfied  with  the  negativemerit,  of  not  being  the  worst  man 
he  knows. 

Lord  Eust.  If  this  discourse  were  uttered  in  a  conventi- 
cle, it  might  have  its  effect  by  setting  the  congregation  to 
sleep 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  31i> 

J^>ar}v.  It  is  rather  meant  to  rouse,  than  hill  your  lord- 
ship 

Jj)r(I  Eust.  No  matter  what  it  is  meant  for  ;  give  me 
the  letters,  Mr.  Frampton. 

Fravi  Yet  excuse  me  ;  I  could  as  soon  think  of  arming* 
a  madman's  hand  against  my  own  life,  as  suffer  you  to  be 
guilty  of  a  crime  that  will  forever  wound  your  honor. 

Lord  Eust.  I  shall  not  come  to  you  to  heal  my  wound : 
your  medicines  are  too  rough  and  coarse  for  me. 

Pram.  The  soft  poison  of  flattery  might  perhaps  please 
you  better. 

Lord  Eust.  Your  conscience  may  probably  have  as  much 
need  of  palliatives  as  mine  Mr.  Frampton  ;  as  I  am  pretty 
well  convinced,  that  your  course  of  life  has  not  been  more 
regular  than  my  own. 

Fravi.  With  true  contrition,  my  lord,  I  confess  part  of 
your  sarcasm  to  be  just.  Pleasure  was  the  object  of  my 
pursuit :  and  pleasure  I  obtained,  at  the  expense  both  of 
health  and  fortune  ;  but  yet  my  lord,  I  broke  not  in  upon 
the  peace  of  others  ;   the  laws  of  hospitality  I  never  violated. 

Lord  Eif.st.  You  may.  perhaps,  have  cause  to  repent 
your  present  conduct.  Mr.  Frampton,  as  much  as  I  do  our 
past  attachment. 

Fram.  Rather  than  hold  your  friendship  upon  such 
terms,  I  resign  it  forever.  Farewell,  my  lord.  [Goes away ^ 
but  immediately  returns^  Ill-treated  as  I  have  been,  I  find 
it  impossible  to  leave  you  surrounded  by  difficulties. 

Lord  Eust,  That  sentiment  should  have  operated  sooner, 
Mr.  Frampton.  Recollection  is  seldom  of  use  to  our  friends, 
though  it  may  sometimes  be  serviceable  to  ourselves. 

Frami.  Take  advantage  of  your  own  expression  my  lord, 
and  recollect  yourself  Born  and  educated  as  I  have  been,  a 
gentleman,  how  have  you  injured  both  yourself  and  me.  by 
admitting  and  uniting  in  the  same  confidence,  your  rascally 
servant ! 

Lord  Eust.  The  exigency  of  my  situation  is  a  sufficient 
excuse  to  myself  and  ought  to  have  been  so  to  the  man  who 
called  himself  my  friend. 

Fram.  Have  a  care  my  lord,  of  uttering  the  least  doubt 
upon  that  subject;  for  could  I  think  you  once  mean  enough 
to  suspect  the  sincerity  of  m)  attachment  to  you,  it  must 
vanish  at  that  instant. 

Lord  Eifst.  The  proofs  of  your  regard  have  been  rather 
painful  of  late   Mr   Frampton. 


316  NEW  SCHOOL  dialogues. 

Fram.  When  I  see  my  friend  upon  the  verge  of  a  preci- 
pice, is  that  a  time  for  compliment  ?  Shall  I  not  rudely  rush 
forward,  and  drag  him  from  it?  Just  in  that  state  you  are 
at  present,  and  I  will  strive  to  save  you.  Virtue  may  lan- 
guish in  a  noble  heart,  and  suffer  her  rival,  vice,  to  usurp 
her  power;  but  baseness  must  not  enter,  or  she  flies  forever 
The  man  who  has  forfeited  his  own  esteem,  thinks  all  the 
world  has  the  same  consciousness,  and  therefore  is,  what  he 
deserves  to  be,  a  wretch. 

Lord  Etist.  Oh,  Frampton  !  you  have  lodged  a  dagger 
in  my  heart. 

Fram.  No,  my  dear  Eustace,  I  have  saved  you  from  one, 
from  your  own  reproaches,  by  preventing  your  being  guilty 
of  a  meanness  which  you  could  never  have  forgiven  yourself 

Lord  Bust.     Can  you  forgive  me.  and  be  still  my  friend? 

Frain.  As  firmly  as  I  have  ever  been,  my  lord.  But  let 
us,  at  present,  hasten  to  get  rid  of  the  mean  business  we  are 
engaged  in,  and  forward  the  letters  we  have  no  right  to  detain. 


XXVII.— FROM  THE  BEAUX  STRATAGEM.— i^arywAar. 


BONIFACE AIMWELL. 


Boniface.     This  way.  this  way.  sir. 

Ai'tmvell.     You're  my  landlord,  I  suppose. 

Bon.  Yes,  sir,  I'm  old  Will  Boniface  ;  pretty  well  known 
upon  the  road,  as  the  saying  is. 

Aiin.     0,  Mr.  Boniface,  your  servant. 

Bon.  0,  sir.  what  will  your  honor  please  to  drink,  as  the 
saying  is  ? 

Aim.  I  have  heard  your  town  of  Litchfield  much  famed 
for  ale  :   I  think  1 11  taste  that  1 

Bon.  Sir.  I  have  now  in  my  cellar,  ten  ton  of  the  best 
ale  in  Staffordshire;  'tis  smooth  as  oil,  sweet  as  milk,  clear 
as  amber  and  strong  as  brandy  ;  and  will  be  just  fourteen 
years  old  the  fifth  day  of  March  next  old  style. 

yhm.     You're  very  exact  I  find,  in  the  age  of  your  ale. 

Bon.     As  punctual,  sir,  as   I  am  in  the  age  of  my  chil- 
dren.     I'll  show  you  such  ale! — Here   tapster,  broach  num 
ber   1706.  as  the  saying  is — Sir  you  shall  taste  my  anno 


COMIC    AXD    AMUSING.  3 17 

dommi.  I  have  lived  in  Litchfield,  man  and  boy  above 
eight-and-fifty  years,  and,  I  believe,  have  not  consumed 
eight-and-fifly  ounces  of  meat. 

Aim.  At  a  meal,  you  mean,  if  any  one  may  guess  by 
your  bulk. 

Bo?i.  Not  in  my  life,  sir  ;  I  have  fed  purely  upon  my 
ale :  I  have  ate  my  ale,  drank  my  ale,  and  I  always  sleep 
upon  ale.  [^Enter  tapster.^  with  a  tankard.]  Now,  sir,  you 
shall  see: — your  worship's  health.  [Driitks.^  Ha!  deli- 
cious, delicious  I  Fancy  it  Burgundy  ;  only  fancy  it — and 
'tis  worth  ten  shillings  a  quart. 

Aim.     \^Drinks.'\     'Tis  confounded  strong. 

Bon.  Strong  !  It  must  be  so,  or  how  should  we  be 
strong  that  drink  it  ?  * 

Aiin.     And  have  you  lived  so  long  upon  this  ale.  landlord  1 

Bon.  Eight-and-fifty  years,  upon  my  credit,  sir;  but  it 
killed  my  wife,  poor  woman,  as  the  saying  is 

Aim.     How  came  that  to  pass  ? 

Bon.  I  don't  know  how,  sir.  She  was  for  qualifying  it 
every  now  and  then,  with  a  dram,  as  the  saying  is;  and  an 
honest  gentleman  that  came  this  way,  from  Ireland,  made 
her  a  present  of  a  dozen  bottles  of  usquebaugh  ;  but  the  poor 
woman  was  never  well  after  ;  but,  however,  I  was  obliged 
to  the  gentleman  you  know. 

Aim.     Why.  was  it  the  usquebaugh  that  killed  her  ? 

Bon.  My  Lady  Bountiful  said  so  ;  she  good  lady,  did 
what  could  be  done :  she  cured  her  of  three  tympanies  ;  but 
the  fourth  carried  her  off.  But  she's  happy,  and  I'm  con- 
tented, as  the  saying  is. 

Aim.     Who  is  that  Lady  Bountiful,  you  mentioned  1 

Bon.  Odds  my  life,  sir,  we'll  drink  her  health.  [^DrinJcs.] 
My  Lady  Bountiful  is  one  of  the  best  of  women.  Her  last 
husband.  Sir  Charles  Bountiful,  left  her  worth  a  thousand 
pounds  a  year;  and  1  believe  she  lays  out  one  half  on't  in 
charitable  uses  for  the  good  of  her  neighbors. 

Aim.  Has  the  lady  been  any  other  way  useful  in  her 
generation  ? 

Bon.  Yes.  sir.  she  had  a  daughter  by  Sir  Charles— the 
finest  woman  in  all  our  country,  and  the,  greatest  fortune. 
She  has  a  son.  too.  by  her  first  husband.  Squire  Sullen,  who 
married  a  fine  lady  from  London  t'other  day  ;  if  you  please, 
sir,  we'll  drink  his  health.     [^Drinks.'] 

Aim,.     What  sort  of  a  man  is  he  ? 

Bon:  Why.  sir.  the  man's  well  enough  ;  says  little  thinks 
27* 


318  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

less,  and  does — nothing  at  all,  faith  ;  but  he's  a  man  of  great 
estate,  and  values  nobody. 

Aim.     A  sportsman,  I  suppose  ? 

Bon.     Yes,  he's  a  man  of  pleasure  ;  he  plays  at  whist  and 
smokes  his  pipe  eight  and-forty  hours  together,  somotimes 

Ami.     Fine  sportsman^  truly  I—  and  married,  you  say  i' 

Bon.     Ay  ;  and  to  a  curious  woman,  sir  — But  he's  my 

landlord !  and  so  a  man,  you  know,  would  not Sir,  my 

humble  service  to  you  [Di-inks.]  Though  I  value  not  a 
farthing  what  he  can  do  to  me :  I  pay  him  his  rent  at  quar- 
ter-day :  I  have  a  running  trade-  I  have  but  one  daughter, 
and  can  give  her no  matter  for  that. 

Aim.     You're  very  happy,  Mr.  Boniface  :  pray,  what  other 
company  have  you  in  town  ?     * 

Bon.     A  power  of  fine  ladies ;  and   then   we  have  the 
French  officers. 

Aim.     0,  that's  right ;  you  have  a  good  many  of  those 
gentlemen.     Pray,  how  do  you  like  their  company  ? 

Bon.  So  well,  as  the  saying  is,  that  I  could  wish  we  had 
many  more  of  them.  They're  full  of  money,  and  pay  dou 
ble  for  everything  they  have.  They  know,  sir,  that  we  paid 
good  round  taxes  for  taking  of 'em  ;  and  so  they  are  willing 
to  reimburse  us  a  little  :  one  of 'em  lodges  in  my  house. 
[Bell  rings.]  I  beg  your  worship's  pardon — I'll  wait  on 
you  again  in  half  a  minute.     lExeunt.] 


XXVIII— FROM  NOLENS  VOLENS.— ZTa//. 


SIR    CHRISTOPHER QUIZ. 

[Note. — Sir  Christopher  is  an  elderly  gentleman,  who  has  a  son  at  col- 
lege, against  whom  he  is  much  enraged  for  having  fallen  prematurely  in 
love.  Quiz,  under  the  assumed  name  of  "  Blackletter,"  personates  a  pro- 
fessor of  languages,  having  come  for  the  purpose  of  pacifying  Sir  Chris- 
topher, and  thus  to  obtain  money  for  the  son.] 

Sir  Christopher.  And  so,  friend  Blackletter,  you  are  just 
come  from  college  ? 

Quiz.     Yes,  sir. 

Sir  Ch.  Ah,  Mr.  Blackletter,  I  once  loved  the  name  of 
a  college,  until  my  son  proved  so  worthless. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  310 

Quiz.  In  the  name  of  all  the  literati,  what  do  you  mean  I 
You  fond  of  books,  and  not  bless  your  stars  in  giving  you 
sucn  a  son  ! 

^ir  Cf'i.  Ah,  sir,  he  was  once  a  youth  of  promise. — But 
do  you  know  him  ? 

Quiz.  What !  Frederick  Classic  ? — Ay,  that  I  do — heav- 
en be  praised  I 

Sir  Ch.  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Blackletter,  he  is  wonderfully 
changed. 

Quiz.  And  a  lucky  change  for  him.  What,  I  suppose 
he  was  once  a  wild  young  fellow? 

Sir  Ch.  No,  sir,  you  don't  understand  me.  or  I  don't  you. 
1  tell  you.  he  neglects  his  studies  and  is  foolishly  in  love,  for 
which  I  shall  certainly  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling. 

Quiz.  You  surprise  me,  sir.  I  must  beg  leave  to  unde- 
ceive you — you  are  either  out  of  your  senses,  or  some  wicked 
enemy  of  his  has.  undoubtedly,  done  him  this  injury.  Why. 
sir,  he  is  in  love,  I  grant  you,  but  it  is  only  with  his  book. 
He  hardly  allows  himself  time  to  eat ;  and  as  for  sleep,  he 
scarcely  takes  two  hours  in  the  twenty  four  This  is  a 
thumper ;  for  the  dog  has  not  looked  into  a  book  these  six 
months,  to  my  certain  knowledge.     \Asidc.'\ 

Sir  Ch.  I  have  received  a  letter  from  farmer  Downright 
this  very  day,  who  tells  me  he  has  received  a  letter  from  him, 
containing  proposals  for  his  daughter 

Quiz.  This  is  very  strange.  I  left  him  at  college  as 
close  to  his  books  as — oh  oh — I  believe  I  can  solve  this 
mystery,  and  much  to  your  satisfaction. 

Sir  Ch.     I  should  be  happy  indeed  if  you  could. 

Quiz.  Oh,  as  plain  as  that  two  and  three  are  five.  'Tis 
thus  :  an  envious  fellow,  a  rival  of  your  son  s — a  fellow  who 
has  not  as  much  sense  in  his  whole  corporation,  as  your  son 
has  in  his  little  finger— yes  I  heard  this  very  fellow  order- 
ing a  messenger  to  farmer  Downright,  with  a  letter ;  and 
this  is,  no  doubt,  the  very  one.  Why,  sir,  your  son  will  cer- 
tainly surpass  the  Admirable  Crichton.  Sir  Isaac  Newton 
will  be  a  perfect  automaton  compared  with  him ;  and  the 
sages  of  antiquity,  if  resuscitated,  would  hung  their  heads  in 
despair. 

Sir  Ch.  Is  it  possible  that  my  son  is  now  at  college, 
making  these  great  improvements  i 

Quiz.     Ay,  that  he  is  sir. 

Sir  Ch.  [Rubbing  his  hands.]  Oh.  the  dear  fellow,  the 
dear  fellow  I 


320  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Quiz.  Sir,  you  may  turn  to  any  part  of  Homer,  and  re- 
peat one  line — he  will  take  it  up,  and  by  dint  of  memory, 
continue  repeating-  to  the  end  of  the  book. 

Sir  Ch.  Weil,  well,  well.  I  find  I  was  doing  him  great 
injustice;  however,  I'll  make  him  ample  amends  -  oh,  the 
dear  fellow,  the  dear  fellow,  the  dear  fellow — \^With great 
joy\ — he  will  be  immortalized ;  and  so  shall  I,  for  if  I  had 
not  cherished  the  boy's  genius  in  embryo,  he  would  never 
have  soared  above  mediocrity 

Qiiiz.     True,  sir. 

Sir  Ch.  I  cannot  but  think  what  superlative  pleasure  I 
shall  have  when  my  son  has  got  his  education.  No  other 
man's  in  England  shall  be  comparative  with  it — of  that  I  am 
positive.  Why,  sir,  the  moderns  are  such  dull,  plodding, 
senseless  barbarians,  that  a  man  of  learning  is  as  hard  to  be 
found,  as  the  unicorn. 

Quiz.  'Tis  much  to  be  regretted,  sir  ;  but  such  is  the 
lamentable  fact. 

Sir  Ch.  Even  the  shepherds,  in  days  of  yore,  spoke  their 
mother  tongue  in  Latin ;  and  now,  hie,  hsec,  hoc,  is  as  little 
understood  as  the  language  of  the  moon 

Quiz.  Your  son,  sir,  will  be  a  phenomenon,  depend 
upon  it. 

Sir  Ch.  So  much  the  better  so  much  the  better.  I  ex- 
pected soon  to  have  been  in  the  vocative,  for,  you  know,  you 
iound  me  in  the  accusative  case,  and  that's  very  near  it — ha! 
ha!  ha! 

Quiz.     You  have  reason  to  be  merry,  sir,  I  promise  you. 

Sir  Ch.  I  have  indeed.  Weil,  I  shall  leave  off  interjec- 
tions, and  promote  an  amicable  conjunction  with  the  dear 
fellow.  Oh!  we  shall  never  think  of  addressing  each  other 
in  plain  English — no,  no,  we  will  converse  in  the  pure  clas- 
sical language  of  the  ancients.  You  remember  the  Eclogues 
of  Virgil,  Mr.  Blackletter  ? 

Qu.iz.  Oh,  yes,  sir,  perfectly ;  have  'em  at  my  fingers'  ends. 
Not  a  bit  of  a  one  did  I  ever  hear  of  in  my  life.     lAside.} 

S2r  Ch.     IIow  sweetly  the  first  of  them  begins ! 

Quiz.  Very  sweetly,  indeed,  sir.  [Aside.']  I  heartily 
wish  he  would  change  the  subject. 

Sir  Ch.  '•  Tytere,  tu  patuJae  vecubans;"  faith,  'tis  more 
musical  than  fifty  hand-organs. 

Quiz.     [Aside.]     I  had  rather  hear  a  jew's-harp. 

Sir  Ch,  Talking  of  music,  though — the  Greek  is  tJae 
language  for  that. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSlN(i.  321 

Quiz.     Truly  is  it. 

Sir  Ch.  Even  the  conjugations  of  the  verbs  far  excel  the 
finest  sonata  of  Pleyel  or  Handel-^ for  instance,  "  tupto,  tupso, 
tetupha" — can  anything  be  more  musical  ? 

Quiz.     Nothing — ••  stoop  low,  stoop  so,  stoop  too  far." 

Sir  Ch.     Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  '•  stoop  too  far  '"  that's  a  good  one. 

Quiz.  [Aside.]  Faith,  I  have  stooped  too  far.  All's 
over  now,  by  Jupiter. 

Sir  Ch.  Ha!  ha  I  ha  I  a  plaguy  good  pun,  Mr.  Black- 
letter, 

Quiz.  Tolerable.  [Aside.]  I  am  well  out  of  that  scrape, 
however. 

Si?-  Ch.     Pray,  sir  which  of  the  classics  is  your  favorite? 

Quiz.  Why,  sir,  Mr.  Frederick  Classic.  1  think  -he  is  so 
great  a  scholar. 

Sir  Ch.  Po,  po,  you  don't  understand  me.  I  mean, 
which  of  the  Latin  classics  do  you  admire  most  ? 

Quiz.  Hang  it  !  what  shall  I  say  now.  [Aside\  The 
Latin  classics?  Oh,  really,  sir,  1  admire  them  all  so  much, 
it  is  difficult  to  say. 

Sir  Ch.  Virgil  is  my  favorite  How  very  expressive  is 
his  description  of  the  unconquerable  passion  of  Queen  Dido, 
where  he  says,  '•  haret  lateri  lethalis  arundo."  Is  not  that 
very  expressive  ? 

Quiz.  Very  expressive,  indeed,  sir.  [Aside.]  I  wish 
we  were  forty  miles  asunder.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  hold 
out  much  longer,  at  this  rate. 

Sir  Ch.     And  Ovid  is  not  without  his  charms. 

Quiz.     He  is  not,  indeed,  sir. 

Sir  Ch.     And  what  a  dear,  enchanting  fellow,  Horace  is  ! 

Quiz.     Wonderfully  so ! 

Sir  Ch.     Pray,  what  do  you  think  of  Zenophon  ? 

Quiz.  Who  the  plague  is  he,  I  wonder.  [Aside.]  Xen- 
ophon  !  oh,  I  think  he  unquestionably  wrote  good  Latin,  sir. 

Sir  Ch.  Good  Latin,  man  ! — he  wrote  Grreek — good 
Greek,  you  meant. 

Quiz.  True,  sir,  I  did.  Latin,  indeed  !  [Tn  great  con- 
fusion.] I  meant  Greek  -did  I  say  Latin?  I  really 
meant  Greek.  [AsL/e.]  In  fact,  I  don't  know  what  I 
mean  myself. 

Sir  Ch.     Oh  !  Mr.  Blackletter,  I  have  been  trying  a  long 
time  to  remember  the  name  of  one  of  Achilles's  horses  but  I 
can't  for  my  life  think  of  it — you  doubtless  can  tell  me. 
U 


322  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Quiz.  0  yes,  his  name  was — but  which  of  them  do  yon 
mean  ! — What  was  he  called  ? 

Sir  Ch  What  was  he  called  ?  Why,  that's  the  very 
thing  I  wanted  to  know.  The  one  T  allude  to  was  born  of 
the  Harpy  Celseno.     I  can't  for  the  blood  of  me,  tell  it. 

Quiz.  [Aside.']  Faith!  if  I  can  either.  [To  him]  Born 
of  the  Harpy — oh!  his  name  was — [striking  Ids  forehead^ 
Gracious  !  I  forget  it  now.  His  name  was, — was, — was, — 
Pshaw,  'tis  as  familiar  to  me  as  my  x\,  B,  C. 

Sir  Ch.  Oh  !  T  remember  —'twas  Xanthus,  Xanthus — 
I  remember  now — 'twas  Xanthus — plague  o'  the  name — 
that's  it. 

Quiz.  Egad!  so  'tis.  "  Thankus,  Thankus"--that's  it 
— strange  I  could  not  remember  it.  [Aside.]  'Twould 
have  been  stranger,  if  I  had. 

Sir  Ch.  You  seem  at  times  a  little  absent,  Mr.  T>Iack- 
letter. 

Quiz.     Absent!  I  wish  T  was  absent  altogether.    [Aside.] 

S^r  Ch.  We  shall  not  disagree  about  learning,  sir.  I 
discover  you  are  a  man,  not  only  of  profound  learning,  but 
correct  taste. 

Quiz.  [Aside]  I  am  glad  you  have  found  that  out,  for 
I  never  should.  I  came  here  to  quiz  the  old  fellow,  and  he'll 
quiz  me,  I  fear.  [To  him.]  0,  by-the-by,  I  have  been  so 
confused — I  mean,  so  confounded ;  pshaw  !  so  much  en- 
grossed with  the  contemplation  of  the  Latin  classics,  I  had 
almost  forgot  to  give  you  a  letter  from  your  son 

Sir  Ch.  Bless  me.  sir !  why  did  you  delay  that  pleasure 
so  long  ? 

Quiz.     I  beg  pardon,  sir,  here  'tis.     [  Gives  a  letter.] 

Sir  Ch.  [Puts  on  his  spectacles  and  reads.]  "  To  Miss 
Clara." 

Quiz.  No,  no,  no— that's  not  it — here  'tis.  [Takes  the 
letter^  and  gives  him  another.] 

Sir  Ch.  What,  are  you  the  bearer  of  love  epistles,  too, 
Mr  Blackletter? 

Quiz.  [Aside^  What  a  horrid  blunder.  [Tohim^  Oh, 
no,  sir,  that  letter  is  from  a  female  cousin  at  a  boarding- 
school,  to  Miss  Clara  Upright, — no.  Downright.  That's  the 
name. 

Sir  Ch.  Truly,  she  writes  a  good  masculine  fist.  Well, 
let  me  see  what  my  boy  has  to  say.     [Reads] 

"Dear  Father, — There  is  a  famous  Greek  manuscript  just 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  323 

come  to  light.  I  must  have  it.  The  price  is  about  a  thou- 
sand dollars.     Send  me  the  money  by  the  bearer." 

Short  and  sweet.  There's  a  letter  for  you,  in  the  true  La- 
cedsernonian  style — laconic.  Well  the  boy  shall  have  it. 
were  it  ten  times  as  much.  I  should  like  to  see  this  Greek 
manuscript.     Pray,  sir,  did  you  ever  see  it? 

Quiz.  I  can't  say  I  ever  did,  sir.  [Aside.]  This  is  the 
only  truth  I  have  been  able  to  edge  in,  yet. 

Sir  Ch.  I'll  just  send  to  my  bankers  for  the  money.  In 
the  mean  time,  we  will  adjourn  to  my  library.  I  have  been 
much  puzzled  with  an  obscure  passage  in  Livy — we  must 
lay  our  heads  together  for  a  solution.  But  I  am  sorry  you 
are  addicted  to  such  absence  of  mind,  at  times. 

Quiz.  'Tis  a  misfortune,  sir;  but  I  am  addicted  to  a 
greater  than  that  at  times. 

Sir  Ch.     Ah  !  what's  that  1 

Quiz.     I  am  sometimes  addicted  to  an  absence  of  body. 

Sir  Ch.     As  how? 

Quiz.  Why  thus,  sir.  [^Takes  up  his  hat  arul  sticky  mid 
walks  off.] 

Sir  Ch.  Ha,  ha,  ha, — that's  an  absence  of  body,  sure 
enough — an  absence  of  body  with  a  vengeance  !  A  very 
merry  fellow  this.  He  will  be  back  for  the  money,  I  sup- 
pose, presently.  He  is,  at  all  events,  a  very  modest  man,  not 
fond  of  expressing  his  opinion — but  that's  a  mark  of  merit. 


XXIX.— REWARD  OF  BENEVOLENCE.— (7o/man. 

JOB  THORNBERRY JOHN  BUR PEREGRINE. 

Bur.     Don't  take  on  so — don't  you  now!     Pray  listen 
to  reason. 
.  Job.     I  won't. 

Bur.     Pray  do. 

Job.  I  won't.  Reason  bid  me  love  my  child  and  help 
my  friend  ;  what's  the  consequence  ?  My  friend  has  run 
one  way,  and  broke  up  my  trade :  my  daughter  has  run  an- 
other, and   broke  my no.  she  shall  never  have  it  to  say. 

she  broke  my  heart.     If  I  hang  myself  for  grief  she  sha'n't 
know  she  made  me. 


324  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Bur.     Well,  but  master — 

Job.  And  reason  told  me  to  take  you  into  my  shop  when 
the  fat  churchwardens  starved  you  at  the  workhouse. — hang 
their  want  of  feeling  for  it ! — and  you  were  thumped  about, 
a  poor  unoffending,  ragged  boy,  as  you  were — I  wonder  you 
haven't  run  away  from  me,  too. 

Bur.  That's  the  first  real  unkind  word  you  ever  said  to 
me.  I've  sprinkled  your  shop  two-and  twenty  ypors,  and 
never  missed  a  morning. 

Job.  The  bailiffs  are  below,  clearing  the  goods: — you 
won't  have  the  trouble  any  longer. 

But.     Trouble  !  look  ye,  old  Job  Thornberry — 

Job.  Well !  what,  are  you  going  to  be  saucy  lo  me,  now 
I'm  ruined? 

Bur.  Don't  say  one  cutting  thing  after  another.  You 
have  been  as  noted  all  around  our  town,  for  being  a  kind 
man  as  a  blunt  one. 

.Job.  Blunt  or  sharp,  I've  been  honest.  Let  them  look 
at  my  ledger — they'll  find  it  right.  I  began  upon  a  little  ;  I 
made  that  little  great  by  industry;  I  never  cringed  at  a  cus- 
tomer, to  get  him  into  my  books,  that  I  might  hamper  him 
with  an  overcharged  bill  for  long  credit ;  I  earned  my  fair 
profits ;  I  paid  my  fair  way ;  I  break  by  the  treachery  of  a 
friend,  and  my  first  dividend  will  be  seventeen  shillings  m 
the  pound.  I  wish  every  tradesman  in  England  may  clap 
his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  say  as  much  when  he  asks  his 
creditor  to  sign  his  certificate. 

Bur.     'Twas  I  kept  your  ledger  all  the  time. 

Job.     I  know  you  did. 

Bur.     From  the  time  you  took  me  out  of  the  workhouse 

Job.     Pshaw !  rot  the  workhouse  ' 

Bur.     You  never  mentioned  it  to  me  yourself  till  to-day 

Job.     I  said  it  in  a  hurry. 

Bur.  And  I've  remembered  it  at  leisure.  I  don't  want 
to  brag,  but  I  hope  I've  been  found  faithful.  It's  rather  hard 
to  tell  poor  John  Bur,  the  workhouse  boy,  after  clothing, 
feeding,  and  making  him  your  man  of  trust  for  two-and 
twenty  years,  that  you  wonder  he  don't  run  away  from  you 
now  you're  in  trouble. 

Job.  [Aff'ectcfl  J  John — [Stretching  out  his  haml.'\ — I 
beg  your  pardon 

Bur.  {Taking  his  hand.']  Don't  say  a  word  more 
about  it. 

.Tob.     I— 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  325 

Bur.  Pray,  now,  master,  don't  say  any  more !  Come,  be 
a  man  '  get  on  your  things,  and  face  the  bailiffs  that  are 
rummaging-  the  goods. 

Job.  I  can't,  John,  I  can't.  My  heart's  heavier  than  all 
the  brass  and  iron  in  my  shop. 

Bur.  Nay,  consider  what  confusion  ! — pluck  up  a  cour- 
age ;  do  now ! 

Job.     Well,  I'll  try. 

Bur.  Ay,  that's  right:  here's  your  clothes.  They'll  play 
the  mischief  with  all  the  pots  and  pans  if  you  aren't  by: 
why.  I  warrant  you'll  do !  bless  you,  what  should  ail  you? 

Job.  Ail  me  '  first  have  a  daughter  yourself,  John  Bur, 
then  let  her  run  away  from  you  and  youll  know  what 
ails  me. 

Bur.  Come,  here's  your  coat  and  waistcoat  This  is  the 
waistcoat  young  mistress  worked,  with  her  own  hands,  for 
your  birthday,  five  years  ago.  Come  get  into  it  as  quick  as 
yjDU  can. 

Job.  [Throiaing  it  on  the  floor  violently. '\  I'd  as  lieve 
get  into  my  coffin.  She'll  have  me  there  soon.  Pshaw  ! 
rot  it !   I'm  going  to  snivel.     Bur,  go  and  get  me  another. 

Bur.     Are  you  sure  you  won't  put  it  on  ? 

Job.  No,  I  won't.  No.  I  tell  you.  [^Exlt  Bur.]  How 
proud  I  was  of  that  waistcoat,  five  years  ago  !  I  little 
thought  what  would  happen  now,  when  I  sat  in  it.  at  the 
top  of  my  table  with  all  my  neighbors  to  celebrate  the  day: 
there  was  Collop  on  one  side  of  me.  and  his  wife  on  the 
other;  and  my  daughter  Mary  sat  at  the  further  end,  smil- 
ing so  sweetly,  like  an  artful  good  for-nothing.  I  shouldn't 
like  to  throw  away  a  waistcoat  neither.  I  may  as  well  put 
it  on.  Yes,  it  would  be  poor  spite  not  to  put  it  on,  [put- 
ting his  arms  into  it.']  She's  breaking  my  heart;  but  I'll 
wear  it.  I'll  wear  it ;  [Jjuttoning  it  as  he  speaks.^  and  crying 
involuntarily  ;\  it's  my  child's  — she's  undutiful,  ungrateful, 
barbarous — but  she's  my  child,  and  she'll  never  work  me 
another. 

[Reenter  Bur.'] 

Bur.  Here's  another  waistcoat ;  but  it  has  laid  by  so 
long  I  think  it's  damp. 

Job      I  was  thinking  so  myself,  Bur,  and  so — 

Bur.  Eh — what  you've  got  on  the  old  one  !  Well,  now, 
I  declare,  I'm  glad  of  that.  Here's  your  coat.  [Putting  it 
on  him.]  Slobs  !  this  waistcoat  feels  a  little  damp  about  the 
top  of  the  bosom. 


326  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Job.  [Confused-I  Never  mind,  Bur,  never jnind — a  lit- 
tle water  has  dropped  on  it;  but  it  won't  give  me  a  cold  1 
believe. 

[A  noise  of  voices  in  altercation  without.  ] 

Bur.  Heigh !  they  are  playing  up  old  Harry  below ' 
I'll  run  and  see  what's  the  matter.  Make  haste  aftei  me, 
do,  now  !     [Exit* Bur.] 

Job.  I  don't  care  for  bankruptcy  now.  I  can  face  my 
creditors  like  an  honest  man :  and  I  can  crawl  to  my  grave 
afterwards,  as  poor  as  a  church  mouse.  What  does  it  sig- 
nify? Job  Thornberry  has  no  reason  now  to  wish  himself 
worth  a  groat :  the  old  ironmonger  and  brazier  has  nobody 
to  hoard  his  money  for  now !  I  was  only  saving  for  my 
daughter ;  and  she  has  run  away  from  her  doating,  foolish 
father,  and  struck  down  my  heart — flat — flat. 
[Enter  Peregrine.^ 

Job.     Well,  who  are  you  1 

Pere.     A  friend. 

Job.  Then  I'm  sorry  to  see  you.  I  have  just  been  ruined 
by  a  friend,  and  never  wish  to  have  another  friend  again,  as 
long  as  I  live.  No,  nor  any  ungrateful,  undutiful — poh !  I 
don't  recollect  your  face. 

Pere.  Climate,  and  years  have  been  at  work  on  it.  While 
Europeans  are  scorching  under  an  Indian  sun,  time  is  doubly 
busy  in  fanning  their  features  with  his  wings.  But,  do  you 
remember  no  traces  of  me  ? 

Job.  No,  I  tell  you.  If  you  have  anything  to  say,  say  it. 
I  have  something  to  settle  below  with  my  daughter — I  mean 
with  the  people  in  the  shop  ;  they  are  impatient ;  and  the 
morning  has  half  run  away,  before  she  knew  I  should  be 
up — I  mean  before  I  had  time  to  get  on  my  coat  and  waist- 
coat, she  gave  me — I  mean — I  mean,  if  you  have  any  busi- 
ness, tell  it  at  once. 

Pere.  I  will  tell  it  at  once.  You  seem  agitated.  The 
harpies,  whom  I  passed  in  your  shop,  informed  me  of  your 
sudden  misfortune  ;   but,  do  not  despair  yet. 

Job.  Ay,  I'm  going  to  be  a  bankrupt — but  that  don't 
signify.    Go  on  :  it  isn't  that:  they'll  find  all  fair — but  go  on. 

Pere.  I  will.  'Tis  just  thirty  years  ago  since  I  left 
England. 

Job.  That's  a  little  after  the  time  I  set  up  in  the  hard- 
ware business. 

Pere.  About  that  time  a  lad  of  fifteen  years  entered  your 
shop ;  he  had  the  appearance  of  a  gentleman's  son,  and  told 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  327 

you  he  had  heard  by  accident,  as  he  was  wandering  through 
the  streets  of  Penzance,  some  of  your  neighbors  speak  of  Job 
Thornberry's  goodness  to  persons  in  distress. 

Jo6.     I  believe  he  told  a  lie  there. 

Pere.     Not  in  that  instance,  though  he  did  in  another. 

Job.     I  remember  him,  he  was  a  bluff  boy. 

Pere.  He  had  lost  his  parents,  he  said  ;  and,  destitute  ol 
friends,  money,  and  food,  was  making  his  way  to  the  next 
port,  to  offer  himself  to  any  vessel  that  would ^  take  him  on 
board,  that  he  might  work  his  way  abroad,  and  seek  a  live- 
lihood. 

Job.     Yes,  yes,  he  did.     I  remember. 

Pere.  You  may  remember,  too,  when  the  boy  had  fin- 
ished his  tale  of  distress,  you  put  ten  guineas  in  his  hand. 
They  were  the  first  earnings  of  your  trade,  you  told  him, 
and  could  not  be  laid  out  to  better  advantage  than  in  reliev- 
ing a  helpless  orphan  ;  and,  giving  him  a  letter  of  recom- 
mendation to  a  sea-captain  at  Falmouth,  you  wished  hiia 
good  spirits  and  prosperity.  He  left  you  with  a  promise, 
that,  if  fortune  ever  smiled  upon  him,  you  should  one  day 
hear  news  of  Peregrine. 

Job.  Ah !  poor  fellow  !  poor  Peregrine  !  he  was  a  pretty 
boy ;  I  should  like  to  hear  news  of  him,  I  own. 

Pere.     I  am  that  Peregrine. 

Job.  Eh  !  what  —you  are  ?  No :  let  me  look  at  you 
again.  Are  you  the  pretty  boy  that — bless  us,  how  you  are 
altered ! 

Pere.  I  have  endured  many  hardships  since  I  saw  you — 
many  turns  of  fortune  ;  but  I  deceived  you,  (it  was  the  cun- 
ning of  a  truant  lad  )  when  I  told  you  I  had  lost  my  parents. 
From  a  romantic  folly,  the  growth  of  boyish  brains,  I  had 
fixed  my  fancy  on  being  a  sailor,  and  had  run  away  from 
my  father. 

Job.  [With  great  emotiori.']  Run  away  from  your  fa- 
ther !  If  I  had  known  that,  I'd  have  horsewhipped  you 
within  an  inch  of  your  life  ! 

Pere.     Had  you  known  it,  you  had  done  right  perhaps. 

Job.  Ilight!  Ah  !  you  don't  know  what  it  is  for  a  child 
to  run  away  from  a  father  !  Rot  me.  if  I  wouldn't  have  sent 
you  back  to  him  tied  neck  and  heels,  in  the  basket  of  the 
stage  coach. 

Pere.  I  have  had  my  compunctions :  have  expressed 
them  by  letter  to  my  father ;  but  I  fear  my  penitence  had 
no  effect. 


S28  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Job.     Served  you  right. 

Fere.  Having  no  answers  from  him,  he  died,  I  fear,  with- 
out forgiving  me. 

Job.  \St(wting.\  What?  died  without  forgiving  hiis 
child  !  Come,  that's  too  much,  I  couldn't  have  done  that 
neither.  But  go  on  :  I  hope  you've  been  prosperous.  Uut 
you  shouldn't — you  shouldn't  have  quitted  your  father. 

Fere.  I  acknowledge  it ;  yet,  I  have  seen  prosperity, 
though  I  traversed  many  countries  on  my  outset,  in  pain  and 
poverty.  Chance,  at  length,  raised  me  a  friend  in  India,  by 
whose  interest,  and  my  own  industry,  I  amassed  consider- 
able wealth  in  the  factory  at  Calcutta. 

Job.     And  have  just  landed  it.  1  suppose,  in  England. 

Pere.  I  landed  one  hundred  pounds  last  night,  in  my 
purse,  as  I  swam  from  the  Indiaman,  which  was  splitting 
on  a  rock,  half  a  league  from  the  neighboring  shore.  As  for 
the  rest  of  my  property — bills,  bonds,  cash,  jewels — the 
whole  amount  of  my  toil  and  application,  are,  by  this  time, 
T  doubt  not,  gone  to  the  bottom ;  and  Peregrine  is  returned, 
after  thirty  years,  to  pay  his  debt  to  you,  almost  as  poor  as 
he  left  you. 

.  Job.     I  won't  touch  a  penny  of  your  hundred  pounds — not 
a  penny. 

Fere.  I  do  not  desire  you.  I  only  desire  you  to  take 
your  own. 

Job.     My  own  ? 

Fere.  Yes  ;  I  plunged  with  this  box,  last  night,  into  the 
waves.     You  see  it  has  your  name  on  it. 

Job.     "  Job  Thornberry,"  sure  enough  and  what's  in  it  ? 

Fere.  The  harvest  of  a  kind  man's  charity — the  produce 
of  your  bounty  to  one  whom  you  thought  an  orphan.  I  have 
traded  these  twenty  years  on  ten  guineas,  (which  from  the 
first  I  had  set  apart  as  yours)  till  they  have  become  ten 
thousand  :  take  it ;  I  could  not,  I  find,  come  more  oppor- 
tunely. Your  honest  heart  gratified  itself  in  administering 
to  my  need,  and  I  experience  that  burst  of  pleasure  a  grate- 
ful man  enjoys,  in  relieving  Diy  reliever.  [  Giving  him  the 
box.] 

Job.  \_Squeezes  Feregrine! s  hand.,  reUirns  the  box.,  and 
seems  almost  unable  to  utter.]     Take  it  again. 

Fere.     Why  do  you  reject  it? 

Job.  I'll  tell  you  as  soon  as  I'm  able.  T'other  day,  I 
lent  a  friend — pshaw  !  rot  it !  I'm  an  old  fool  !  [  Wiping 
his  eyes. \     I  lent  a  friend^  t'other  day.  the  whole  profits  of 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  329 

my  trade,  to  save  him  from  sinking.  He  walked  off  with 
them,  and  made  me  a  bankrupt.  Don't  you  think  he  is  a 
rascal  1 

Fere.     Decidedly  so. 

Job.  And  what  should  I  be,  if  I  took  all  you  have  saved 
in  the  world,  and  left  you  to  shift  for  yourself? 

Fere.  But  the  case  is  different.  This  money  is  in  fact 
your  own.  I  am  inured  to  hardships ;  better  able  to  bear 
them,  and  am  younger  than  you.  Perhaps,  too,  I  still  have 
prospects  of — 

Job.  I  won't  take  it.  I'm  as  thankful  to  you,  as  if  I  left 
you  to  starve :   but  I  won't  take  it. 

Fere.  Remember,  too,  you  have  claims  upon  you,  which 
I  have  not.  My  guide,  as  I  came  hither,  said  you  had  mar- 
ried in  my  absence :  'tis  true,  he  told  me,  you  were  now  a 
widower;   but,  it  seems,  you  have  a  daughter  to  provide  for. 

Job.     I  have  no  daughter  to  provide  for,  now  ! 

Fere.     Then,  he  misinformed  me. 

Job.  No,  he  didn't.  I  had  one  last  night ;  but  she's 
gone. 

Fere.     Gone ! 

Job.  Yes ;  gone  to  sea,  for  what  I  know,  as  you  did. 
Run  away  from  a  good  father,  as  you  did.  This  is  a  morn- 
ing to  remember  ; — my  daughter  has  run  out,  and  the  bai- 
liffs have  run  in      I  shan't  soon  forget  the  day  of  the  month. 

Fere.     This  morning,  did  you  say  ? 

Jf^,     Ay,  before  daybreak — a  hard-hearted,  base — 

Fere.  And  could  she  leave  « ou  during  the  derangement 
of  your  affairs  ? 

Job.  She  didn't  know  what  was  going  to  happen,  poor 
soul !  I  wish  she  had.  now.  I  don't  think  my  Mary  would 
have  left  her  old  father  in  the  midst  of  his  misfortunes. 

Fere.  [Aside.]  Mary  I  it  must  be  she  !  What  is  the 
amount  of  the  demands  upon  you  ? 

Job.  Six  thousand.  But  I  don't  mind  that;  the  goods 
can  nearly  cover  it — let  'em  take  'em — a  fig  for  the  gridirons 
and  warming-pans !  I  could  begin  agaifi ;  but  now  my 
Mary's  gone,  I.haven't  the  heart ;  but  I  shall  hit  upon  some- 
thing. 

Fere.     Let  me  make   a  proposal  to  you,  my  old  friend. 
Permit  me  to  settle  with  the.  officers,  and  to  clear  all  de- 
mands  upon  you.      Make  it  a  debt,  if  you  please.     I  will 
have  a  hold,  if  it  must  be  so,  on  your  future  profits  in  trade 
but  do  this,  and  I  promise  to  restore  your  daughter  to  vou 

28-^ 


380  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Job.  What!  bring  back  my  child  !  Do  you  know  where 
she  is?     Is  she  safe  ?     Is  she  far  off? 

Pere.     Will  you  receive  the  money  1 

Job.  Yes,  yes,  on  those  terms — on  those  conditions.  But 
where  is  Mary  ? 

Pere.  Patience.  I  must  not  tell  you  yet ;  but  in  four- 
and-twenty  hours,  I  pledge  myself  to  bring  her  back  to  you. 

Job.  What !  here  ?  to  her  father's  house  ?  and  safe  ?  Oh, 
'sbud  !  when  I  see  her  safe,  what  a  thundering  passion  I'll 
be  in  with  her !  But  you  are  not  deceiving  me  ?  You 
know  the  first  time  you  came  into  my  shop,  what  a  bouncer 
you^told  me,  when  you  were  a  boy. 

Pere.  Believe  me,  I  would  not  trifle  with  you  now. 
Come,  come  down  to  your  shop,  that  we  may  rid  it  of  its 
present  visitants. 

Job.  I  believe  you  dropped  from  the  clouds,  all  on  a  sud- 
den, to  comfort  an  old,  broken-hearted  brazier. 

Pere.  I  rejoice,  my  honest  friend,  that  1  arrived  at  so 
critical  a  juncture  ;  ;ind,  if  the  hand  of  providence  be  in  it, 
'tis  because  heaven  ordains  that  benevolent  actions,  like 
yours,  sooner  or  later,  must  ever  meet  their" recompense. 
[Exeunt.'] 


XXX.— FROM  AS  YOU  LIKE  lH.—Shakspeare. 

DUKE  FREDERICK,  A  USURPER. LE  BEAU,  A  COURTIER CHARLES, 

THE    duke's    WRESTLER OLIVER    AND    ORLANDO,  BROTHERS 

ADAM    AND    DENNIS,  SERVANTS  TO  OLIVER TOUCHSTONE,  A 


CLOWN ROSALIND,    DAUGHTER    TO    THE    BANISHED    DUKE — 

'1 


'1 
CELIA,  DAUGHTER  TO  FREDERICK LORDS ATTENDANTS. 


Scene  1. — An  Orchard  near  Oliver's  House. 

[Enter  Orlando  and  Adam.] 
Orlando.  As  I  remember.  Adam,  it  was  upon  this  fashion 
bequeathed  me  :  By  will,  but  a  poor  thousand  crowns  ;  and, 
as  thou  sayest.  charged  my  brother,  on  his  blessing,  to  breed 
me  well;  and  there  begins  my  sadness.  My  brother  Jaques, 
he  keeps  at  school,  and  report  speaks  goldenly  of  his  profit: 
for  my  part  he  keeps  me  rustically  at  home :  or,  to  speak 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  3Sl 

more  properly,  stays  me  here  at  home,  unkept.  For,  call 
you  that  keeping,  for  a  gentleman  of  my  birth,  that  differs 
not  from  the  stalling  of  an  ox  ?  His  horses  are  bred  better, 
for,  besides  that  they  are  fair  with  their  feeding  they  are 
taught  their  manage;  and  to  that  end.  riders  dearly  hired: 
but  I,  his  brother,  gain  nothing  under  him  but  growth ;  for 
the  which,  his  animals  are  as  much  bound  to  him  as  I.  Be- 
sides, this  nothing,  that  he  so  plentifully  gives  me,  the  some- 
thing that  nature  gave  me  his  countenance  seems  to  take 
from  me:  he  lets  me  feed  with  his  hinds  bars  me  the  place 
of  a  brother,  and,  as  much  as  in  him  lies,  mines  my  gentility 
with  my  education.  This  it  is,  Adam,  that  grieves  me  ;  and 
the  spirit  of  my  father,  which  I  think  is  within  me,  begins 
to  mutiny  against  this  servitude  :  I  will  no  longer  endure  it, 
though  yet  I  know  no  wise  remedy  how  to  avoid  it. 
[Enter  Oliver.'] 

Adam.     Yonder  comes  my  master,  your  brother. 

Orla.  Go  apart,  Adam,  and  thou  shalt  hear  how  he  will 
shake  me  up 

Oliver.     Now,  sir,  what  make  you  here  1 

Orla.     Nothing :  I  am  not  taught  to  make  anything. 

Oli.     What  mar  you  then,  sir? 

Orla.  Marry,  sir,  I  am  helping  you  to  mar  that  which 
God  made,  a  poor,  unworthy  brother  of  yours,  with  idle- 
ness. 

Oli.  Marry,  sir,  be  better  employed,  and  be  naught  a 
while. 

Orla.  Shall  I  keep  your  hogs,  and  eat  husks  with  them  ? 
What  prodigal  portion  have  I  spent,  that  I  should  come  to 
penury  ? 

Oli.     Know  you  where  you  are,  sir  ? 

Orla.     0,  sir,  very  well ;  here  in  your  orchard. 

Oli.     Know  you  before  whom,  sir? 

Orla.  Ay,  better  than  he  I  am  before  knows  me.  I 
know  you  are  my  eldest  brother ;  and,  in  the  gentle  condi- 
tion of  blood,  you  should  so  know  me.  The  courtesy  of 
nations  allows  you  my  better,  in  that  you  are  the  first-born  ; 
but  the  same  tradition  takes  away  not  my  blood,  were  there 
twenty  brothers  betwixt  us :  I  have  as  much  of  my  father 
in  me  as  you ;  albeit,  I  confess,  your  coming  before  me  is 
nearer  to  his  reverence. 

Oli.     What,  boy ! 

Orla.  Come,  come,  elder  brother,  you  are  too  young  in 
this. 


832 


NRW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


on.     Wilt  thou  lay  hands  on  me,  villain  ? 

Orla.  I  am  no  villain :  I  am  the  youngest  son  of  Sir 
Rowland  de  Bois :  he  was  my  father :  and  he  is  thrice  a 
villain  that  says  such  a  father  begot  villains.  Wert  thou  not 
my  brother,  I  would  not  take  this  hand  from  thy  throat  till 
this  other  had  pulled  out  thy  tongue  for  saying  so ;  thou 
hast  railed  on  thyself 


Adam.  Sweet  masters,  be  patient ;  for  your  father's  re- 
membrance, be  at  accord  ! 

OJi.     Let  me  go,  T  say. 

Orla.  I  wiH  not.  till  I  please:  you  shall  hear  me.  My 
father  charged  you  in  his  will,  to  give  me  good  education  : 
you  have  trained  me  like  a  peasant :  obscuring  and  hiding 
from  me  all  gentleman-like  qualities  :  the  spirit  of  my  father 
grows  strong  in  me.  and  I  will  no  longer  endure  it:  there- 
fore allow  me  such  exercises  as  may  become  a  gentleman,  or 
give  me  the  poor  allottery  my  father  left  me  by  testament; 
with  that.  I  will  go  buy  my  fortunes. 

Oli.  And  what  wilt  thou  do?  beg.  when  that  is  spent? 
Well,  sir,  get  you  in.  I  will  not  long  be  troubled  with  you  : 
you  shall  have  some  part  of  your  will.  I  pray  you.  leave 
me. 

Orla.  I  will  no  further  offend  you  than  becomes  me  for 
my  good. 

Oli.     Get  you  with  him,  you  old  dog. 

Adam.  Is  old  dog  my  reward  ?  Most  true,  I  have  lost 
my  teeth  in  your  service — God  be  with  my  old  master  !  tie 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  333 

(vould  not  have  spoken  such  a  word.     [^Exeunt  Orlando  and 
Adam.'] 

Oil.  Is  it  even  so  ?  Begin  you  to  grow  upon  me.  I  will 
physic  your  rankness,  and  yet  give  no  thousand  crowns,  nei- 
ther.— Holla,  Dennis  ! 

[E/iter  .Dennis.] 

Dennis.     Calls  your  worship  ? 

Oil.  Was  not  Charles,  the  duke's  wrestler,  here  to  speak 
with  me  ? 

Den.  So  please  you,  he  is  here  at  the  door  and  impor- 
tunes access  to  you. 

Oli.  Call  him  in.    [Exii  Dennis.]    'Twill  be  a  good  way; 
[Ente?'  Charles.] 

Charles.     Good  morrow  to  your  lordship. 

Oli.  Good  monsieur  Charles  !  what's  the  new  news  at 
the  new  court  ■ 

Cha.  There's  no  news  at  the  court,  sir,  but  the  old  news ; 
that  is,  the  old  duke  is  banished  by  his  younger  brother  the 
new  duke;  and  three  or  four  loving  lords  have  put  them- 
selves into  voluntary  exile  with  him,  whose  lands  and  reve- 
nues enrich  the  new  duke ;  therefore,  he  gives  them  good 
leave  to  wander. 

OH.  Can  you  tell,  if  Rosalind,  the  duke's  daughter,  be 
banished  with  her  father  ? 

Cha.  0,  no  :  for  the  duke's  daughter,  her  cousin,  so  loves 
her — being  ever  from  their  cradles  bred  together — that  she 
would  have  followed  her  exile,  or  have  died  to  stay  behind 
her.  She  is  at  the  court,  and  no  less  beloved  of  her  uncle 
than  his  own  daughter ;  and  never  two  ladies  loved  as 
they  do. 

Oli,  What,  you  wrestle  to  morrow  before  the  new  duke? 

Cha.  Marry,  do  I,  sir  ;  and  I  came  to  acquaint  you  with 
the  matter.  I  am  given,  sir.  secretly  to  understand,  that 
your  younger  brother.  Orlando,  hath  a  disposition  to  come 
in  disguised  against  me,  to  try  a  fall.  To-morrow,  sir.  I 
MTestle  for  my  credit;  and  he  that  escapes  me  without  some 
broken  limb,  shall  acquit  him  well  Your  brother  is  but 
young  and  tender;  and.  for  your  love  I  would  be  loath  to 
foil  him,  as  I  must,  for  my  own  honor,  if  he  come  in: 
therefore,  out  of  my  love  to  you,  T  came  hither  to  acquaint 
you  withal;  that  either  you  might  stay  him  from  his  in- 
tendment, or  brook  such  disgrace  well,  as  he  shall  run  into: 
in  that  it  is  a  thing  of  his  own  search,  and  altogether  against 
my  will. 


334  NEW   SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

on.  Charles,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  love  to  me,  which  ihju 
shalt  find  I  will  most  kindly  requite.  I  had  myself  notice  of 
my  brother's  purpose  herein,  and  have  by  underhand  means, 
labored  to  dissuade  him  from  it ;  but  he  is  resolute  I'll  tell 
thee.  Charles,  it  is  the  stubbornest  young  fellow  in  France  ; 
full  of  ambition  ;  an  envious  emulator  of  every  man's  good 
parts  ;  a  secret  and  villainous  contriver  against  me.  his  nat- 
ural brother  ;  therefore  use  thy  discretion  ;  I  had  as  lief  thou 
didst  break  his  neck  as  his  finger  And  thou  wert  best  look 
to't ;  for  if  thou  dost  him  any  slight  disgrace,  or  if  he  do  not 
mightily  grace  himself  on  thee,  he  will  practice  against  thee 
by  poison,  entrap  thee  by  some  treacherous  device,  and  never 
leave  thee  till  he  hath  taken  ihy  life  by  some  indirect  means, 
or  other:  for.  I  assure  thee,  and  almost  with  tears  I  speak  '\L 
there  is  not  one  so  young  and  so  villainous,  this  day  living. 
1  speak  but  brotherly  of  him ;  but  should  I  anatomize  him 
to  thee  as  he  is,  I  must  blush  and  weep  and  thou  must  look 
pale  and  wonder. 

Cha.  I  am  heartily  glad  I  came  hither  to  you.  If  he 
come  to-morrow,  I'll  give  him  his  payment.  If  ever  he  go 
alone  again,  I'll  never  wrestle  for  prize  more.  And  so,  God 
keep  your  worship.     \_Exit.\ 

Oli.  Farewel',  good  Charles. — Now  will  I  stir  this  game- 
ster. I  hope  I  shall  see  an  end  of  him  :  for  my  soul,  yet  P 
know  not  why,  hates  nothing  more  than  he.  Yet.  he's  gen- 
tle ;  never  schooled,  and  yet  learned  ;  full  of  noble  device ; 
of  all  sorts,  enchantingly  beloved  ;  and,  indeed,  so  much  in 
the  heart  of  the  world,  and  especially  of  my  own  people, 
who  best  know  him.  that  I  am  altogether  misprized  :  but 
it  shall  not  be  so  long  ;  this  wrestler  shall  clear  all:  nothing 
remains  but  that  I  kindle  the  boy  thither,  which  now  I'll 
go  about.     l^Exit.'] 

Scene  2. — A  Lawn  before  the  Duke's  Palace. 

[Enter  Rosalind  and  Celia.] 
Celia.     Here  comes  monsieur  Le  Beau. 

[Enter  Le  Beau  and  Touchstone?^ 
Cd.     Bonjour.  monsieur  Le  Beau  :  what's  the  news? 
Le  Beau.    Fair  princess  you  have  lost  much  good  sport, 
Cel.     Sport !  of  what  color  ? 

Le  Beau.  What  color,  madam  ?  How  shall  I  answe.- 
you? 

Rosalind.     As  wit  and  fortune  will. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  335 

Touchstone..     Or  as  the  destinies  decree. 

Cel.     Well  said  ;  that  was  laid  on  with  a  trowel. 

Le  Beau.  You  amaze  me,  ladies  :  I  would  have  told  you 
of  good  wrestling-,  which  you  have  lost  the  sight  of. 

Ros.     Yet,  tell  us  the  manner  of  the  wrestling. 

Le  Beau.  I  will  tell  you  the  beginning,  and,  if  it  please 
your  ladyships,  you  may  see  the  end  ;  for  the  best  is  yet 
to  do ;  and  here,  where  you  are,  they  are  coming  to  per- 
form it. 

Cel.     Well  -the  beginning,  that  is  dead  and  buried. 

Le  Beau.  There  comes  an  old  man  and  his  three 
sons — 

Cel.     I  could  match  this  beginning,  with  an  old  tale. 

Le  Beau.  Three  proper  young  men  of  excellent  growth 
and  presence — 

Ros.  With  bills  on  their  necks, — Be  it  known  unto  all 
men  by  these  presents — 

ie  Beau.  The  eldest  of  the  three  wrestled  with  Charles, 
the  duke's  wrestler;  which  Charles,  in  a  moment,  threw  him, 
and  broke  three  of  his  ribs,  and  there  is  little  hope  of  life  in 
him  :  so  he  served  the  second,  and  so  the  third  :  yonder  they 
lie ;  the  poor  old  man,  their  father,  making  such  pitiful  dole 
over  them,  that  all  the  beholders  take  his  part  with  weeping. 

Ros.     A. las  ! 

Touch.  But  what  is  the  sport,  monsieur,  that  the  ladies 
have  lost  ? 

Le  Beau.     Why,  this  that  I  speak  of 

Touch.  Thus  men  grow  wiser  every  day  !  It  is  the 
first  time  that  ever  I  heard  breaking  of  ribs  was  sport  for 
ladies. 

Cel.     Or  I,  I  promise  thee. 

Ros.  But  is  there  any  else  longs  to  see  this  broken 
music  in  his  sides  ?  Is  there  yet  another  dotes  upon  rib- 
breaking  ?     Shall  we  see  this  wrestling,  cousin  ? 

Le  Beau.  You  must,  if  you  stay  here ;  for  here  is  the 
place  appointed  for  the  wrestling,  and  they  are  ready  to  per- 
form it. 

Cel.     Yonder,  sure,  they  are  coming.     Let  us  now  stay 
and  see  it. 
[Flourish. — Enter    Duke    Frederick,    Lords.,     Orlando^ 
Charles^  and  attendants^ 

Dukt  Frederick.  Come  on ;  since  the  youth  will  not  be 
entreated,  his  own  peril  on  his  forwardness. 

Ros.     Is  yonder  the  man  ? 


3.36  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Le  Beau.     Even  he,  madam. 

Cel.     Alas,  he  is  too  young  :  yet  he  looks  successfully. 

Duke  F.  How  now,  daughter,  and  cousin  !  are  you  crept 
hither  to  see  the  wrestling? 

Ros.     Ay,  my  liege  :  so  please  you  give  us  leave. 

Duke  F.  You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  I  can  tell  you, 
there  is  such  odds*  in  the  men.  In  pity  of  the  challenger's 
youth,  I  would  fain  dissuade  him,  but  he  will  not  be  en- 
treated.    Speak  to  him,  ladies  ;  see  if  you  can  move  him. 

Cel     Call  him  hither,  good  monsieur  Le  Beau. 

Duke  F.     Do  so;  I'll  not  be  by.     [Duke goes  apart.] 

Ix  Beau.  Monsieur  the  challenger,  the  princesses  call 
for  you. 

Orla.     I  attend  them,  with  all  respect  and  duty. 

llos.  Young  man.  you  have  challenged  Charles  the 
wrestler  ? 

Orla.  No,  fair  princess  ;  he  is  the  general  challenger  :  I 
come  but  in,  as  others  do,  to  try  with  him  the  strength  of  my 
youth. 

Cel.  Young  gentleman,  your  spirits  are  too  bold  for  your 
years.  You  have  seen  cruel  proof  of  this  man's  strength. 
If  you  saw  yourself  with  your  eyes,  or  knew  yourself  with 
your  judgment,  the  fear  of  your  adventure  would  counsel 
you  to  a  more  equal  enterprise.  We  pray  you.  for  your  own 
sake,  to  embrace  your  own  safety,  and  give  over  this  at- 
tempt. 

Ros.  Do,  young  sir,  your  reputation  shall  not,  therefore, 
be  misprized.  We  will  make  it  our  suit  to  the  duke  that 
the  wrestling  might  not  go  forward. 

Orla.  I  beseech  you.  punish  me  not  with  your  hard 
thoughts  ;  wherein  I  confess  me  much  guilty,  to  deny  so  fair 
and  excellent  ladies  anything.  But  let  your  fair  eyes  and 
gentle  wishes,  go  with  me  to  my  trial ;  wherein  if  I  be  foiled, 
there  is  but  one  shamed  that  was  never  gracious  ;  if  killed, 
but  one  dead  that  is  willing  to  be  so.  I  shall  do  my  friends 
no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament  me  :  the  world  no  in- 
jury, for  in  it  I  have  nothing ;  only  in  the  world  I  fill  up  a 
place,  which  may  be  better  supplied,  when  I  have  made  it 
empty. 

Ros.  The  little  strength  that  I  have,  I  would  it  were 
with  you. 

Cel     And  mine,  to  eke  out  hers. 

Ros.     Fare  you  well.     Pray  heaven  I  be  deceived  in  you  ! 

Cel.     Your  heart's  desires  be  with  you  ! 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  337 

Cha.  Come,  where  is  this  young  gallant,  that  is  so  desi- 
rous to  lie  with  his  mother  earth  ? 

Orla.  Keady,  sir ;  but  his  will  hath  in  it  a  more  modest 
working. 

Duke  F.     You  shall  try  but  one  fall. 

Cha.  No,  I  warrant  your  grace  ;  you  shall  not  entreat 
him  to  a  second,  that  have  so  mightily  persuaded  him  from 
a  first. 

Orla.  You  mean  to  mock  me  after ;  you  should  not  have 
mocked  me  before  :  but  come  your  ways.  * 

Ros.     Now,  Hercules  be  thy  speed,  young  man  ! 

Cel.  I  would  I  were  invisible,  to  catch  the  strong  fellow 
by  the  leg.     [  Charles  and  Orlando  wrestle^ 

Ros.     0,  excellent  young  man  ! 

Cel.  If  I  had  a  thunderbolt  in  mine  eye,  I  can  tell  who 
should  down.     {^Charles  is  throivn. — Shout. '\ 

Duke  F.     No  more,  no  more. 

Orlu.  Yes,  I  beseech  your  grace.  I  am  not  yet  well 
breathed. 

Duke  F     How  dost  thou,  Charles  ? 

Le  Beau.     He  cannot  speak,  my  lord. 

Duke  F.  Bear  him  away.  {^Charles  is  borne  out."]  What 
is  thy  name,  young  man  ? 

Orla.  Orlando,  my  liege  ;  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Row- 
land de  Bois. 

Duke  F  Thou  art  a  brave,  a  gallant  youth ;  farewell  I 
[Exit.] 

Cel.     Sir,  you  have  well  deserved  ; 
If  you  do  keep  your  promises  in  love, 
But  justly,  as  you  have  exceeded  promise, 
Your  mistress  shall  be  happy. 

Ros.     Gentleman,  [^giving  him  a  chain  from  her  neck.] 
Wear  this  for  me — one  out  of  suits  with  fortune. 
Sir,  you  have  wrestled  well,  and  overthrown 
More  than  your  enemies.     Farewell.      [Exeunt  Rosalind 
and  Celia. 

Orla.     What   passion    hangs    these   weights   upon   my 
tongue? 
0,  poor  Orlando  !  thou  art  overthrown  ; 
Or  Charles,  or  something  weaker,  masters  thee.     [Exit.] 
X  29 


338  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


XXXL— LOVE,  DUTY,  AND  PARENTAL  AUTHORITY.— 
Anonymous. 

MABEL  GOODWIN ARTHUR  MONTRESOR. 

^cene  1. — An  old-fashioned  garden,  with  terraces,  fountains,  ye^^- 
hedges,  <fec. — A  large  mansion  in  the  background. — Time,  eight  in  the 
evening,  A.  D.  1657. 

\ Mabel  Goodwin,  alone.^ 

Mabel.  So !  Master  Arthur  Montresor !  He  promised 
to  meet  me  here  by  eight,  and  the  great  clock  in  the  hall 
wanted  but  five  minutes  full  half  an  hour  agone.  It  must 
be  half  an  hour.  I  have  been  pacing  up  and  down  this 
walk  from  the  yew-hedge  to  the  fountain,  twenty  times  at 
least,  besides  going  twice  to  the  little  door  in  the  garden- 
wall,  to  be  sure  that  it  was  unbolted.  It  can't  be  a  minute 
less  than  half  an  hour.  He  had  as  well  stay  now  in  his 
hiding-place  at  the  village,  for  I'll  never  speak  to  him  again. 
Never  !  and  yet,  poor  fellow. — No  !  I'll  never  speak  to  him 
again  ! 

[Enter  Arthur  Montresor. 1 
So,  Master  Arthur. 

Arthur.  So,  my  pretty  Mistress  Mabel !  Why  turn 
away  so  angrily  ?  What  fault  have  I  committed,  I  pray 
thee  ? 

Mab.     Fault?     None! 

Arth.  Nay.  nay,  my  little  Venus  of  the  Puritans,  my 
princess  of  all  Precisions,  if  thou  be  offended,  tell  me  so. 

Mab.  Offended,  forsooth !  People  are  never  offended 
with  people  they  don't  care  about      Offended,  quotha! 

Arth.  And  is  it  because  some  people  don't  care  for  other 
people,  that  they  bridle,  and  flounce,  and  toss,  and  put  their 
pretty  selves  into  such  pretty  tantrums — eh.  Mistress  Ma- 
bel ?     I  am  after  time,  sweet — but — 

Mab.  After  time  !  I  have  been  here  this  half  hour  ! — 
and  my  father  fast  asleep  in   the  hall !     After  time  !     If 

thou  hadst  cared  for  me. But  men  are  all  alike.     There 

hath  not  been  a  true  lover  m  the  world  since  the  days  of 
Amadis — and  that  was  but  a  false  legend.  After  time! — - 
Why.  if  thou  hadst  cared  for  me  only  as  much  as  I  care  for 
this  sprig  of  lavender,  thou  wouldst  have  been  waiting  for 
me  before  the  chimes  had  rung  seven.     Just  think  of  the 


COMTC    AND    AMUSING.  339 

time  thou  hast  lost. — Now  thou  may'st  go  thy  ways  — Leave 
me.  sir ! 

Arth.  Nay,  mine  own  sweet  love,  do  not  offer  to  snatch 
thy  hand  away.  I  cannot  part  with  thee.  Mabel,  though 
thou  shouldst  flutter  like  a  new  caught  dove.  I  must  speak 
with  thee.      I  have  that  to  say  which  must  be  heard. 

Mah.     Well! 

ArtJi.  I  have  been  dogged  all  day  by  a  canting  Puritan, 
a  follower,  as  I  take  it.  of  thy  godly  father. 

Mah.  Jeer  not  my  father,  xVnhur,  although  he  be  a  round- 
head and  thou  a  cavalier.     He  is  a  brave  man  and  a  good. 

Arth.  He  is  thy  father,  and  therefore  sacred  to  me. 
Where  didst  thou  say  he  is  now  ? 

Mah.  I  left  him  in  the  hall  just  settling  quietly  to  an 
after-supper  nap. — Why  dost  thou  ask  ? 

Arth.  I  have  been  watched  all  day  by  one  whom  I  sus- 
pect to  be  a  spy;  and  T  fear  me,  that  in  spite  of  my  disguise, 
my  false  name,  and  my  humble  lodgmg,  I  am  discovered. 

Mah  Discovered  in  thy  visits  here  \  Discovered  as  mv 
—friend  ? 

Arth.  No,  no,  I  trust  not  so.  Therefore  I  delayed  to 
come  to  thee  till  I  could  shake  off  my  unwelcome  follower. 
Not  discovered  as  thy  lover,  thy  friend^  if  such  name  better 
please  thee — but  as  the  cavalier  and  malignant  (for  so  their 
phrase  runs)  Arthur  Montresor. 

Mah.  But  granting  that  were  true,  what  harm  hast  thou 
committed  ?     What  hast  thou  to  fear  ? 

Arth.  Small  harm,  dear  Mabel;  and  yet  in  these  bad 
days  small  harm  may  cause  great  fear.  I  have  borne  arms 
for  the  king ;  I  have  never  acknowledged  the  Protector  !  I 
am  known  as  the  friend  of  Ormond,  perhaps  suspected  as 
his  agent ;  and  moreover,  I  am  the  rightful  owner  of  this 
same  estate  and  mansion  of  Montresor  Hall,  its  parks,  man- 
ors, and  dependencies,  bestowed  by  the  sequestrators  on  thy 
father,  Colonel  Goodwin.  Seest  thou  no  fear  there,  fair 
Mabel? 

Mab.     Alas  !  alas  ! 

Arth.  Then  my  deceased  father,  stout  old  Sir  Robert, 
has  meddled  in  every  plot  and  rising  in  the  country,  from 
the  first  year  of  the  llebellion  to  this,  as  I  well  trust  the  last 
of  the  usurpation  so  that  the  very  name  souifids  like  a  fire- 
brand. 'Twould  be  held  a  fair  service  to  the  state,  Mabel, 
to  shoot  thy  poor  friend  ;  and  yet  I  promise  thee,  albeit  a 
loyal  subject  to  king  Charles.   \   am  hardly  fool  enough  to 


S40  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

wage  war  in  my  own  single  person  against  Oliver,  whom  a 
mightier  conqueror  than  himself  will  speedily  overthrow. 

Mab.     A  mightier  conqueror  I 

Arth.  Even  the  great  tyrant  Death — he  who  levels  the 
mighty  and  the  low — x\rthur  Montresor  and  Oliver  Crom 
well ! 

Mab.  Death!  Art  thou  then  in  such  peril?  And  dost 
thou  loiter  here  'I  I  beseech  thee  away  I  away  this  moment ! 
what  detains  thee  ? 

Art/i.  That  which  brought  me — thyself.  Being  in  Eng- 
land I  came  hither,  more  weeks  ago  than  I  care  to  think  of,  to 
look  on  my  old  birth  place  my  old  home.  I  saw  thee,  Mabel, 
and  ever  since  I  have  felt  that  these  halls  are  a  thousand- 
fold more  precious  to  me  as  thy  home,  as  thy  inheritance, 
than  ever  they  could  have  been  as  mine.     I  love  thee,  Mabel. 

Mab.  Oh  go!  go!  go!  To  talk  of  love  whilst  thou  art 
in  such  danger! 

Arth.     I  love  thee,  mine  own  Mabel. 

Mab.     Go : 

Arth.  Wilt  thou  go  with  me?  I  am  not  rich — I  have 
no  fair  mansion  to  take  thee  to  ;  but  a  soldier's  arm,  and  a 
true  heart,  Mabel !  Wilt  thou  go  with  me.  sweet  one?  I'll 
bring  horses  to  the  little  garden  door.  The  moon  will  be 
up  at  twelve. — Speak,  dearest !  And  yet  this  trembling 
hand  speaks  for  thee.  Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  and  be  my 
wedded  wife  I 
.    Mab.     I  will. 

Scene  2. 

ARTHUR    MONTRESOR MABEL  GOODWIN COLONEL    GOODWIN 

JONATHAN. 

The  same  garden.     A  high   wall  on  one  side,  with  a  small  strong  door 

in  it. 

\  Enter  Arthur  from  the  side-door.^ 
Arth.  Mabel !  Not  yet  arrived !  Surely  she  cannot 
have  changed  her  purpose  ?  No,  no  !  it  were  treason  against 
true  love  but  to  suspect  her  of  wavering — she  lingers  from 
maiden  modesty,  from  maiden  fear  from  natural  affection, 
from  all  that  man  worships  in  woman.  But  if  she  knew  the 
cause  I  hav>-  to  dread  every  delay! 

[Enter  Mabel  from  the  House] 
Mabel !     Sweetest — how  breathless  thou  art  !     Thou  canst 
hardly  stand  !     Rest  thee  on  this  seat  a  moment,  my  Mabel 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  341 

And  yet  delay — hath  aught  befallen  to  affright  thee?  Sit 
iiere  dearest  !     What  hath  startled  thee  ? 

Mab.     I  know  not.     And  yet— 

Arth.     How  thou  trem blest  still  !     And  what — 

Mab.  As  I  passed  the  gallery. — Only  feel  how  my  heart 
flutter?,  Arthur ! 

Arth.  Blessings  on  that  dear  heart '  Calm  thee,  sweet- 
est.— What  of  the  gallery  ? 

Mab.     As  I  passed,  methought  I  heard  voices. 

Arth.  Indeed  !  And  I  too  have  missed  the  detected 
spy  who  hath  been  all  day  dogging  my  steps.  Can  he — 
but  no  !  All  is  quiet  in  the  house.  Look,  Mabel !  Ail 
dark  and  silent.  No  light  save  the  moonbeams  dancing  on 
the  window  panes  with  a  cold  pale  brightness.  No  sound 
save  the  song  of  the  nightingale — dost  thou  not  hear  it  1  It 
seems  to  come  from  the  tall  shrubby  sweet-brier,  which 
sends  its  fragrant  breath  in  at  yonder  casement. 

Mab.  That  is  my  father's  chamber — my  dear,  dear  fa- 
ther !  Oh,  when  he  shall  awake  and  find  his  Mabel  gone, 
little  will  the  breath  of  the  sweet-brier,  or  the  song  of  the 
nightingale,  comfort  him  then  I  My  dear,  dear  father!  He 
kissed  me  after  prayers  to-night,  and  laid  his  hand  on  my 
head  and  blessed  me.  He  will  never  bless  his  poor  child 
again. 

ArtJt.  Come,  sweetest !  The  horses  wait ;  the  hours 
wear  on ;  morning  will  soon  be  here. 

Mab  Oh,  what  a  morning  to  my  poor,  poor  father  !  His 
Mabel,  his  only  child,  his  beloved^  his  trusted  !  Oh,  Arthur, 
my  father  !  my  father !    ^ 

Arth.  Maiden,  if  thou  lovest  thy  father  better  than  me, 
remain  with  him.  It  is  not  yet  too  late.  I  love  thee,  Ma- 
bel, as  well  as  man  may  love  on  this  side  of  idolatry  ;  too 
well  to  steal  thee  away  against  thy  will !  too  well  to  take 
thy  hand  without  thy  heart.  The  choice  is  still  open  to 
thee.  Return  to  thy  father's  house,  or  wend  with  me. 
Weep  not  thus,  dear  one  ;   but  decide,  and  quickly. 

Mab.  Nay,  I  will  go  with  thee.  Arthur.  Forgive  these 
tears  I     I'll  go  with  thee  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

Arth.     Now  then.     What  noise  is  that  ? 

Mab.     Surely,  surely  the  turning  of  a  key. 

Arth.  Ay,  the  garden  door  is  fastened ;  the  horses  are 
led  off.     We  are  discovered. 

Mab.     Is  there  no  other  way  of  escape  ? 

Arth.  None.  The  garden  is  walled  round.  Look  at 
29* 


342  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

these  walls,  Mabel ;  a  squirrel  could  scarcely  climb  them. 
Through  the  house  is  the  only  chance  ;  and  that — 

Mab.  Try  the  door  again  ;  I  do  beseech  thee  try.  Je'ush 
against  it — I  never  knew  it  fastened  other  than  by  this  iron 
bolt.     Push  manfully. 

Arth.  It  is  all  in  vain  ;  thou  thyself  heard'st  the  key 
turn  ;  and  see  how  it  resists  my  utmost  strength.  The  door 
IS  surely  fast. 

Mab.  See ;  the  household  is  alarmed !  Look  at  the 
lights  !  Venture  not  so  near,  dear  Arthur  !  Conceal  thee 
in  the  arbor  till  all  is  quiet.     I  will  go  meet  them. 

Arth.     Alone! 

Mab.  Why,  what  have  I  to  fear  ?  Hide  thee  behind 
the  yew-hedge  till  the  first  search  be  past,  and  then — 

ArtJi.     Desert  thee !     Hide  me  !     And  I  a  Montresor  ! 
But  be  calmer,  sweetest !     Thy  father  is  too  good  a  man  to 
meditate  aught  unlawful.     'Twill   be  but  some  short   re- 
straint, with  thee  for  my  warder.     Calm  thee,  dearest ! 
\^E7iter  Colonel  Goodwin  and  a  Servant,  from  th,e  House.'] 

Good.  Shoot !  Shoot  instantly,  Jonathan.  Slay  the 
robber !  Why  dost  thou  not  fire  1  Be'st  thou  in  league 
with  him  ?     What  dost  thou  fumble  at? 

Jon.  So  please  your  worship,  the  wind  hath  extinguished 
the  touch-paper. 

Good.  The  wind  hath  extinguished  thy  wits,  I  trow, 
that  thou  couldst  bring  naught  but  that  old  arquebuss. 
Return  for  a  steel  weapon.  [Exit  Jonathan?]  Meantime 
my  sword — T  see  but  one  man,  and  surely  a  soldier  of  the 
Cause  and  the  Covenant,  albeit  aged,  may  well  cope  with  a 
night-thief  Come  on,  young  man.  Be'st  thou  coward  as 
well  as  robber?     Defend  thyself. 

Mab.  Oh,  father !  father  !  Wouldst  thou  do  murder 
before  thy  daughter's  eyes  ? 

Good.  Cling  not  thus  around  me,  maiden  !  What  ma- 
kest  thou  with  that  thief,  that  craven  thief? 

Arth.  Nay,  tremble  not,  Mabel ;  for  thy  sake  I  will  en- 
dure even  this  contumely. — Put  up  your  sword,  sir  ;  it  is 
needless.  I  yield  myself  your  prisoner.  At  this  instant, 
suspicions,  even  as  degrading  as  those  uttered  by  Colonel 
Groodwin,  may,  perhaps,  be  warranted  by  my  equivocal  posi- 
tion ;  but  when  I  make  myself  known  to  him.  I  trust  that 
he  will  retract  an  expression  as  unworthy  of  his  character  as 
of  mine. 

Good.     I  do  know  thee.     Thou  art  the  foul  malignant 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  343 

A^rthur  Montresor;  the  abettor  of  the  plotting  traitor  Or- 
mond  :  the  outlawed  son  of  the  lawless  cavalier  who  once 
owned  this  demesne. 

Artli.  And  knowing  me  for  Arthur  Montresor.  couldst 
thou  take  me  for  a  garden  robber  ?  Couldst  thou  grudge 
to  the  sometime  heir  of  these  old  halls  a  parting  glance  of 
their  venerable  beauty  \ 

Good.  Young  man,  wilt  thou  tell  me.  darest  thou  tell 
me  that  itvvas  to^gaze  on  this  old  mansion  that  thou  didst 
steal  hither,  like  a  thief  in  the  night?  Arthur  Montresor, 
canst  thou  look  at  thy  father's  house  and  utter  that  false- 
hood 1  Ye  were  a  heathenish  and  blinded  generation,  main 
props  of  tyranny  and  prelacy,  a  worldlj'-and  a  darkling  race, 
who  knew  not  the  truth  ; — but  yet  from  your  earliest  ances- 
tor to  the  last  possessor  of  these  walls,  ye  had  amongst  the 
false  gods  whom  ye  worshipped,  one  idol,  called  Honor. 
Arthur  Montresor,  I  joy  that  thou  hast  yet  enough  of  grace 
vouchsafed  to  thee  to  shrink  from  affirming  that  lie. 

Arth.     But  a  robber  !  a  garden-thief! 

Good.  Ay,  a  robber  !  I  said,  and  I  repeat,  a  robber,  a 
thief,  a  despoiler.  Hath  the  garden  no  fruit  save  its  apricots 
and  dewberries  ?  No  flower  save  the  jessamine  and  the 
rose  %  Hath  the  house  no  treasure  but  its  vessels  of  gold 
and  silver  1  the  cabinet  no  jewel  but  its  carbuncles  and  its 
rubies? .  If  ever  thou  art  a  father,  and  hast  one  hopeful  and 
dutiful  maiden,  the  joy  of  thine  heart,  and  the  apple  of  thine 
eye,  then  thou  wilt  hold  all  robbery  light,  so  that  it  leaves 
thee  her,  all  robbers  guiltless  save  him  who  would  steal  thy 
child.  Weep  not  thus  Mabel.  And  thou,  young  man, 
away.  I  joy  that  the  old  and  useless  gun  defeated  my  an- 
gry purpose — that  I  slew  not  my  enemy  on  his  father's 
ground.  Away  with  thee,  young  man  !  Go  study  the  par- 
able that  Nathan  spake  to  David.  I  believe  that  there  is 
warrant  enough  for  thy  detention  ;  but  I  will  not  make  thee 
prisoner  in  the  house  of  thy  fathers.     Thank  me  not ;  but  go. 

Mah.     Father,  hear  me  ! 

Good.     Within  !     To-morrow  ! 

Mah.  Nay,  here  and  now.  Thou  hast  pardoned  him ; 
but  thou  hast  not  pardoned  me. 

Good.     I  have  forgiven  thee — I  do  forgive  thee. 

Mob.  Thou  knowest  not  half  my  sins  !  I  am  the  prime 
offender,  the  great  and  un repenting  culprit.  I  loved  him,  I 
do  love  him  ;  we  are  betrothed,  and  I  will  hold  faithful  to 
my  vow  !     Never  shall  another  man  wed   Mabel  Goodwin! 


344  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Oh,  father,  I  knew  not  till  this  very  hour  how  dear  thy  poor 
child  was  to  thy  heart — Canst  thou  break  hers? 

Good.     Mabel   this  is  a  vain  and  simple  fancy. 

Mab.     Father,  it  is  love. — Arthur,  plead  for  us  ! 

Arth.  Alas  !  I  dare  not.  Thou  art  a  rich  heiress  ;  I  am 
a  poor  exile. 

Mab  Out  on  such  distinctions  !  one  word  from  my  fa- 
ther ;  one  stroke  of  Cromwell's  pen.  and  thou  art  an  exile  no 
longer.     Plead  for  us,  Arthur  ! 

,  Arth.  Mabel,  I  dare  not.  Thy  father  is  my  benefactor ; 
he  has  given  me  life  and  liberty.  Wouldst  thou  have  me 
repay  these  gifts  by  bereaving  him  of  his  child? 

Mab.  We  will  not  leave  him.  We  will  dwell  together 
Arthur,  wilt  thou  not  speak  ? 

Good.  His  honorable  silence  hath  pleaded  better  for  him 
than  words      Arthur  Montresor,  dost  thou  love  this  maid  ? 

Arth.     Do  I  love  her  ! 

Good.  I  believe  in  good  truth  that  thou  dost.  Take  her 
then  from  the  hand  of  her  father. — There  is  room  enough  in 
yonder  mansion  for  the  heir  and  the  heiress,  the  old  posses- 
sor and  the  new.  Take  her,  and  Heaven  bless  ye.  my  chil- 
dren ! 

Mab.  Now,  bless  thee,  mine  own  dear  father  !  and  bless 
all  the  accidents  of  this  happy  night.— Our  projected  elope- 
ment—and the  little  door  that  would  not  let  us  elo.pe — and 
the  wind  that  blew  out  Jonathan's  spark  of  fire, — and  the 
old  useless  gun  that,  for  want  of  that  spark,  would  not  shoot 
my  Arthur.     Blessings  on  them  all  ! 


Rotmetj.    Here,  take  the  cnishkin  down  to  the  public  house  beyont,  an<t  f^tn  it 
filled  wid  "  the  medicine  as  before,"  as  the  doctors  say. 

The  Shephrrd  of  Derwcnt  Vale.. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  345 


XXXIL— FROM  A  CURE  FOR   THE   HEART-ACHE.— Jfartow. 

VORTEX YOUNG    RAPID OLD    RAPID BRONZE LANDLORD 

WAITER SERVANT MISS  VORTEX. 

Scene  1.— A  Room  in  an  Inn. 

Waiter.     [  Without.]     Coming-,  sir  ! 

Young  Rapid.  [  Without.]  Coming !  why  don't  you  come  ? 
Why  don't  all  of  you  come,  eh  ? 

\_Enter  Waiter,  tvitk  baggage,  meeting  Bronze.] 

Bronze.     Waiter,  who  are  these  people  ? 

Waiter.  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Bronze.  The  young  one 
seems  a  queer  one  ;  he  jumped  out  of  the  maif  ran  into  the 
kitchen,  whipped  the  turnspit  into  a  gallop  and  bade  him 
keep  moving ,  and  though  not  a  minute  in  the  house,  he 
has  been  in  every  room,  from  the  garret  to  the  cellar. 
Father  and  son,  I  understand.  The  name  on  the  luggage, 
I  see,  is  Rapid. 

Bronze.  Rapid  !  [Aside.]  Perhaps  it  is  my  old  mas- 
ter, the  great  tailor,  and  his  harum-scarum  son.  I'll  ob- 
serve. 

Waiter.  Here  he  comes,  full  dash,  and  the  old  man  trot- 
ting after  him,  like  a  terrier.     [Exeunt.] 

[Enter  Old  and  Young  Rajnd] 

Y.  Rap.  Come  along,  dad — push  on,  my  dear  dad.  Well, 
here  we  are.     Keep  moving. 

Old  Rapid.  Moving  !  well,  haven't  I  been  moving  all 
night  in  the  mail  coach,  to  please  you  ? 

Y.  Rap.  Mail  !  famous  thing,  isn't  it  ?  Je  up !  whip 
over  counties  in  a  hop,  step,  and  jump.     Dash  along ! 

Q.  Rap.  Odd  rot  such  hurry  scurry  doings,  I  say. 
Here  have  I  ground  my  old  bones  all  night  in  the  mail,  to 
be  eight  hours  before  my  appointment  with  Sir  Hubert 
Stanley,  and  here  I  must  sit  biting  my  fingers. 

Y.  Rap.  Biting  your  fingers.  No,  no,  I'll  find  you 
•something  to  do.  Come,  we'll  keep  moving.  [Takes  his 
father  by  the  arm,  %vho  resists.] 

[Enter  Landlord^ 

Landlord.     Gentlemen,  I  beg  leave — 

Y.  Rap.     No  prosing — to  the  point. 

0.  Rap      For  shame  ;  don't  interrupt  the  gentleman. 

Y.  Rap.     Gently,  dad — dash  away,  sir. 


346  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Land.  A  servant  of  Sir  Hubert  Stanley  has  been  inqui- 
ring for  Mr.  Rapid. 

Y.  Rap.     Push  on. 
^Land.     And  expects  him  at  the  castle 

Y.  Rap.  That  will  do;  push  off,  brush,  run!  [Exit 
Landlord,  running.']  That's  the  thing — keep  moving.  I 
say,  dad  ! 

0.  Rap     What  do  you  say,  Neddy  ? 

Y.  Rap.  Neddy  !  Neddy  !  don't  call  me  Neddy.  I  hate 
to  be  called  Neddy. 

0.  Rap.     Well,  I  won't. 

Y.  Rap.  That's  settled.  I  say,  what's  your  business 
with  Sir  Hubert ! — Some  secret  eh  ? 

0.  Rap.  [Aside.]  I  won't  tell  you.  Oh,  no  ; — a  bill  he 
owes  me  for  making  his  clothes  and  liveries. 

Y.  Rap.  Pugh  !  he's  a  ready  money  man.  I  never  made 
a  bill  out  for  him  in  my  life.     It  won't  do. 

O.  Rap.  Well,  then,  sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  you.  [Tliey 
sit.\     Can  you  sit  still  a  moment? 

Y.  Rap.  [Jumping  up.]  To  be  sure  I  can — now  tell 
me  briefly — briefly.     [Sits  again.] 

O.  Rap.    [Aside.]    Indeed.  I  will  not.    You  must  know — 

Y.  Rap.     Ay— 

O.  Rap.     You  must  know — 

Y.  Rap.  Fauhg  !  you  have  said  that  twice — now  don't 
say  it  again. 

0.  Rap.  Well.  I  won't.  You  must  know — 'tis  a  very 
long  story. 

Y  Rap.     [Rising.]     Then  I'll  not  trouble  you. 

0.  Rap.  [Aside.]  I  thought  so.  And  pray,  what  might 
induce  you  to  come  with  me  ? 

Y.  Rap.  [Aside.]  Won't  tell  him  of  Jessy.  Oh,  as 
we  had  given  up  trade — left  off  stitching — you  know,  my 
way — I  like  to  push  on — change  the  scene,  that's  all — keep 
moving. 

0.  Rap.  Moving!  [Yawns.]  Oh,  my  poor  old  bones  ! 
Waiter,  bring  me  a  night  gown.  [  Waiter  helps  him  on 
with  a  night  gown — he  lays  his  coat  on  a  chair.] 

Y.  Rap.     What  are  you  at,  dad  ? 

0.  Rap.     Going  to  take  a  nap  on  yon  sofa, 

Y.  Rap.     A  nap — pugh  ! 

0.  Rap.     Dear  me!  I've  no  comfort  of  my  life  with  you. 

Y.  Rap.     Say  no  more. 

0.  Rap.     But  I  will,  though  ; — hurry,  hurry — odd  rabbit 


COMIC    AXD    AMUSING,  347 

it,  I  never  get  a  dinner  that's  half  dressed  :  and  as  for  a  com- 
t'ortabJe  sleep,  I'm  sure — 

y.  Map.     You  sleep  so  slow. 

0.  Rap.  Sleep  slow !  I'll  sleep  as  slow  as  I  please  ;  so, 
at  your  peril,  disturb  me.  Sleep  slow,  indeed.  [  Yawning. 
Exit.~\ 

Y.  Rap.     Now  to  visit  Jessy.    Waiter  !    [^Enter  Waiter.'] 

Waiter.     Sar  !     [  With  great  quickness.'] 

Y.  Rap.     That's  right — sir — short — you're  a  fine  fellow. 

Waiter.     Yes,  sar. 

Y.  Rap.     Does  farmer  Oatland  live  hereabouts  ? 

Waiter.     Yes,  sar. 

Y.  Rap.     How  far  ? 

Waiter.     Three  miles. 

Y.  Rap.     Which  way? 

Waiter.     West. 

Y.  Rap.     That  will  do — get  me  a  buggy. 

Waiter.     Yes.  sar.     \^Exit.] 

Y.  Rap.  Oh,  if  my  old  dad  had  left  off  business  as  some 
of  your  flashy  tailors  do,  t  might  have  kept  a  curricle,  and 
lived  like  a  man      Is  the  buggy  ready  ?     \^CaUs.] 

Waiter.     [Without.]     No  sar. 

Y.  Rap.  But  to  cut  the  shop  with  a  paltry  five  thousand. 
Is  the  buggy  ready  ? 

Waiter.     [Wit/wi/t]     No,  sar. 

Y.  Rap.  Or  to  have  dashed  to  Jessy  in  a  curricle.  Is 
the  buggy  ready  ? 

Waiter.     [Without.]     No.  sar. 

Y.  Rap.  To  have  flanked  along  a  pair  of  blood  things  at 
sixteen  miles  an  hour.  [Puts  himself  in  the  attitude  of 
driving^  and  sits  on  the  chair  loliere  Old  Rapid  left  his  coat 
— springs  from  it  again.]  Wnat  the  deuce  is  that  i  Oh  !  oh  ! 
something  has  run  into  my  back.  I'll  bet  a  hundred,  'tis  a 
needle  in  father's  pocket.  Confound  it !  what  does  he  carry 
needles  now  for?  [Searches  the  pocket]  Sure  enough,  here 
it  is — one  end  stuck  into  a  letter,  and  the  other  into  my 
back.  I  believe.  Ah!  eh!  whatls  this?  [Rr.ads.]  "To 
Mr.  Rapid— free — Hubert  Stanley."  Ha,  ha,  ha!  here's 
dad's  secret.  Now  for  it!  [Reads  nery  quick.]  '-Sir 
Hubert  Stanley  will  expect  to  see  Mr.  Rapid  at  the  castle, 
and  would  be  glad  to  extend  the  mortgage,  which  is  now 
i:;5U,000''— what's  this?  [Reads  again.]  "Extend  the 
mortgage,  which  is  now  £50,000,  to  seventy."     Fifty  thou- 


348  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

sand  !  huzza !  'Us  so — niy  old  dad  worth  fifty  thousand — per- 
haps seventy — perhaps — I'll — no — I'll — 
[Enter  Waiter.] 

Waiter.     The  buggy's  ready,  sar. 

Y.  Raj)-     I^^r®  to  talk  to  me  of  a  buggy,  and  I'll — 

Waiter.     Perhaps  you  would  prefer  a  chaise  and  pair  ? 

Y.  Rap.  No,  I'll  have  a  chaise  and  twelve.  Abscond  ! 
[Exit  Waiter.']  I  must,  I  must  keep  moving — I  must  travel 
for  improvement  First,  I'll  see  the  whole  of  my  native 
country — its  agriculture  and  manufactories.  That,  I  think 
will  take  me  full  four  days  and  a  half  Next,  I'll  make  the 
tour  of  Europe,  which,  to  do  well,  will,  I  dare  say,  employ 
three  weeks  or  a  month.  Then,  returning,  as  completely 
versed  in  foreign  manners  and  languages  as  the  best  of 
them,  I'll  make  a  push  at  high  life.  In  the  first  circles, 
I'll  keep  moving.  Fifty  thousand  !  perhaps  more — perhaps 
—oh ! 

Waiter.     [Without.']     You  can't  come  in. 

Bronze.     [Without.]     I  tell  you,  I  will  come  in. 

Y.  Rap.     Will  come  in  !  that's  right — push  on,  whoever 


you 


are. 


[Enter  Bronze.] 

Bronze.  I  thought  so.  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Rapid? 
Don't  you  remenaber  Bronze,  your  father's  foreman,  when 
you  were  a  boy  ? 

Y.  Rap.  Ah,  Bronze!  how  do  you  do.  Bronze?  Any- 
thing to  say,  Bronze?  Keep  moving.  Do  you  know, 
Bronze,  by  this  letter  I  have  discovered  that  my  father  is 
worth — how  much,  think  you  ? 

Bronze.     Perhaps  ten  thousand. 

Y.  Rap.     Push  on. 

Bronze.     Twenty. 

Y.  Rap.     Push  oft. 

Bronze.     Thirty. 

Y.  Rap.     Keep  movmg. 

Bronze.     Forty. 

Y.  Rap.  Fifty  ;  perhaps — sixty — seventy — oh !  I'll  tel) 
you.  He  has  lent  50,000  pounds  on  mortgage  to  an  old 
baronet. 

Bronze.     Sir  Hubert  St-^ — 

Y.  Rap.  [Slopping  hint.]  I  know  his  name  as  well  as 
you  do. 

Bronze.  [Aside  ]  Here's  news  for  my  master !  Well, 
sir,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  ? 


nOMTC    ANP    AMUSING.  349 

Y.  Rap.  Do !  push  on — become  a  man  of  fashion,  to  be 
buro. 

Bronze.  What  would  );ou  say,  if  I  were  to  get  you  intio- 
duced  to  a  nabob  ? 

Y.  liap.     A  nabob  !     Oh  !  some  flash-in  the-pan  chap. 

Bronze.     Oh,  no  ! 

Y.  Rap.  What,  one  of  your  real,  genuine,  neat-as-iiu- 
ported  nabobs  ? 

Bronze.     Fes ;  Mr.  Vortex.    Did  you  never  hear  of  him  ? 

Y.  Rap.     To  be  sure  I  have.     But  will  you  ? 

Bronze.     Yes. 

Y.  Rap.     Ah  !  but  will  you  do  it  directly  ? 

Bronze.     I  will. 

Y.  Rap.  Then  push  off';  stop — stop — I  beg  your  pardon 
— it  cuts  me  to  the  heart  to  stop  any  man.  because  I  wish 
everybody  to  keep  moving.  But  won't  dad's  being  a  tailor, 
make  an  objection  ? 

Bronze.  No;  as  you  never  went  out  with  the  pattern 
books. 

Y.  Raj).     [Sighing.']     0  !  yes  I  did. 

Bronze.     That's  awkward.     But  you  never  operated  ? 

Y  Rap.     [  With  melancholy.  \    What  do  you  say  ? 
Bronze.    I  say  you  never — \jDescrihes  in  action.,  the  act  of 

seiving.] 

Y  Rap.     [Sighing  deeper.]     Oh !  yes  I  did. 
Bronze.     That's  unlucky. 

Y.  Rap.     Very  melancholy,  indeed  ! 

Bronze.     I  have  it.     Suppose  I  say  you  are  merchants  ? 

Y.  Rap.  My  dear  fellow,  sink  the  tailor,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  hundred. 

Bronze.     Will  you  ?     Thank  you. 

Y.  Rap.     Now  push  ofl\ 

Bronze.     But  don't  be  out  of  the  way. 

Y.  Rap.     Me !  bless  you,  I'm  always  in  the  way. 

Brojize.     Don't  move. 

Y.  Rap.  Yes,  I  must  move  a  little — away  you  ffo. 
[Pushes  Bronze  off.]  Huzzah  !  now  to  awake  old  dad. 
[Exit,  and  returns  icith  Old  Rapid.]     Come  along,  dad. 

O.  Rap.  Yes.  sir — yes,  sir— I'll  measure  you  directly — 
I'll  measure  you  directly. 

Y.  Rap.     He's  asleep.     Awake  ! 

O.  Rap.     What's  the  matter,  eh?  what's  the  matter? 

Y.  Rap.  What's  the  matter?  I've  found  fifty  thousand 
la  that  letter. 

30 


350  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

O.  JR/ip.  Indeed  !  [Opens  tlue  letter  eagerly  ]  Ah  !  N  ^  1- 
dy,  have  you  found  out — 

Y.  Rap.     I  have — that  you  are  worth — how  much  ? 

O.  Rap.     Why,  since  what's  past — 

Y.  Rap.     Never  mind  what's  past. 

O.  Rap.  I've  been  a  fortunate  man.  My  old  partner  used 
to  say,  "  Ah  !  you  are  lucky,  Rapid.  Your  needle  always 
sticks  in  the  right  place." 

Y.  Rap.     No,  not  always.  [Shrugging.']  But  how  much? 

O.  Rap.  Why,  as  it  must  out,  there  are  fifty  thousand  lent 
on  mortgage.     Item,  fifteen  thousand  in  the  consols—item — 

Y.  Rap.  Never  mind  the  items.  The  total^  my  dear  dad, 
the  total. 

O.  Rap.     What  do  you  think  of  a  plum  ? 

Y.  Rap.     A  plum !  oh,  sweet,  agreeable,  little,  short  word! 

O.  Rap.     Besides  seven  hundred  and  ninety — 

y;  Rap.  Never  mind  the  odd  money ;  that  will  do.  But 
how  came  you  so  rich,  dad'^  Hang  me,  you  mast  have  kept 
moving. 

O.  Rap.  Why,  my  father,  forty  years  ago,  left  me  five 
thousand  pounds;  which,  at  compound  interest,  if  you  mul- 
tiply— 

Y.  Rap.  No  ;  you  have  multiplied  it  famously.  It's  my 
business  to  reduce  it  [Aside.]  Now,  my  dear  dad,  in  the 
first  place,  never  call  me  Neddy. 

O.  Rap.     Why,  what  must  I  call  you  ? 

Y.  Rap.     Ned — short — Ned. 

O.  Rap      Ned  !  oh,  Ned  ! 

Y.  Rap.  That  will  do.  And  in  the  next  place,  sink  the 
tailor.     Whatever  you  do,  sink  the  tailor. 

O.  Rap.     Sink  the  tailor !    what  do  you  mean  1 

Y.  Rap.  I've  news  for  you.  We  are  going  to  be  intro- 
duced to  Mr.  Vortex,  the  rich  nabob. 

O.  Rap.  You  don't  say  so  !  Huzzah !  it  will  be  the  ma- 
king of  us. 

Y.  Rap.     To  be  sure.     Such  fashion  !  such  style  ! 

O.  Rap.  Ay,  and  such  a  quantity  of  liveries,  and— oh, 
dear  me.     [  With  great  dejection.] 

Y.  Rap.     What's  the  mutter  ? 

O.  Rap.     [Sighing.]     I  forgot  I  had  left  off  business. 

Y  Rap.  Business  !  confound  it !  Now,  pray  keep  the 
tailor  under,  will  you  ?  I'll — I'll  send  an  express  to  London. 
[Runx  to  tlie  table.] 

O.  Rap.     An  express  !  for  what? 


OOMIC    AND    AMUSING  351 

Y.  Raj).     I  don't  know.  {Enter  Waiter.'] 

Waiter.     The  bill  of  fare,  gentlemen. 

r  Rap.  Bring  it  here.  [Reads.]  '•  Turbots— salmon — 
soles — haddock — beef— mutton — veal — lamb — pork— chick- 
ens— ducks— turkeys — puddings — pies."  Dress  it  all ;  that's 
the  short  way. 

Waiter.     All! 

Y.  Rajj.     Every  bit. 

O.  Rap.  No,  no,  nonsense.  The  short  way,  indeed! 
Come  here,  sir.  Let  me  see — [reads.^  "  um — um.  Ribs  of 
beef"     That's  a  good  thing ;    I'll  have  that 

Y.  Rap.     What? 

Waiter.     Ribs  of  beef,  sir. 

Y.  Rap.     Are  they  the  short  ribs  ? 

Waiter.     Yes.  sir. 

Y.  Rap.     That's  right. 

Waiter.     What  liquor  would  your  honor  like  ? 

Y.  Rap.     [Jumpiiiii;  iqj\     Spruce  beer. 

Waiter.     Very  well,  sir. 

Y.  Rap.     I  must  have  some  clothes. 

O.  Rap.     I'm  sure,  that's  a  very  good  coat. 

Y.  Rap.  Waiter!  I  must  have  a  dashing  coat,  for  the 
nabob.     Is  there  a  rascally  tailor  anywhere  near  you? 

Waiter.  Yes,  sir;  there  are  two  close  by.  \TJiey  look  at 
each  other.] 

Y.  Rap.  Umph  I  tben  tell  one  of  them  to  send  me  some 
clothes. 

Waiter.     Sir,  he  must  take  your  measure. 

O.  Rap.     To  be  sure  he  must. 

Y.  Rap.  Oh  true!  I  remember  the  fellows  do  measure 
you  somehow  with  long  bits  of — well  send  for  the  scoun- 
drel.    [Exit  Waiter.] 

O.  Rap.     Oh,  for  shame  of  yourself!     I've  no  patience. 

Y.  Rap.  Like  you  the  better  ;  hate  patience  as  much  as 
you  do;  ha,  ha!  must  swagger  a  little. 

O.  Rap.  Ah  !  I'm  too  fond  of  you,  I  am,  Ned.  Take  my 
fortune,  but  only  remember  this — by  the  faith  of  a  man,  I 
came  by  it  honestly — and  all  I  ask  is  that  it  may  go  as  it 
came. 
•  Y.  Rap.  Certainly.  But  we  must  keep  moving,  you 
know  ? 

O.  Rap.  Well,  I  don't  care  if  I  do  take  a  bit  of  a  walk 
with  you. 

Y.  Rap.  Bit  of  a  walk  !  hang  it !  we'll  have  a  gallop 
together.     Come  along  dad.     Push  on,  dad.     [Exeunt.] 


352  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


Scene  2. — A  Room  in  an  Inn. 


[Enter  Old  Rapid ^  with  a  letter,  and  a  Servant  following. '\ 

0.  Rap.  What!  a  real  letter  from  the  real  nabob?  Dear 
me  !  where  is  Neddy?  Make  my  humble  duty  to  your  mas- 
ter; proud  to  serve  him — no — very  proud  to  see  him  ;  grate- 
ful for  the  honor  of  his  custom — no — no — for  his  company. 
I  wish  you  a  pleasant  walk  home.  sir.  The  nabob  coming 
here  directly!  Oh,  dear  me!  where's  Neddy?  Waiter  I 
[Exit  Servant — Enter  Waiter^  Do  you  know  where  my 
boy  is  ? 

Waiter.  Not  a  minute  ago,  I  saw  him  fighting  in  a  field 
behind  the  house. 

\Enter  Young  Rapid.,  his  coat  torn.^ 

O.  Ra]).     Fighting !  oh  dear  !  where  is  he  ? 

Y.  Rap.     Here  I  am,  dad. 

O.  Rap.     What  has  been  the  matter? 

Y.  Rap.  Only  a  small  rumpus  ;  went  to  peep  at  the 
castle ;  pushing  home,  the  road  had  a  bit  of  a  circumbendi- 
bus, hate  corners,  so  I  jumped  the  herdge,  cut  right  across — 
you  know  my  way — kept  moving,  up  came  a  farmer,  wanted 
to  turn  me  back,  would  not  do  tustled  a  bit,  carried  my 
point,  came  straight  as  an  arrow. 

O.  Rap.     Fy,  fy  !  but  read  that  letter. 

Y  Rap.  What !  the  nabob  coming  here  directly,  and  I 
in  this  pickle.    Waiter  !  are  my  clothes  come  home  ? 

.     Waiter.     No,  sir. 

Y;  Rap.     Why,  the  fellow  gave  his  word  — 

Waiter.     Yes,   sir;  but  what   can  you   expect   from   a 

tailor?     [Exit.] 

Y  Rap.     That's  very  true. 
O.  Rap.     Impudent  rascal  I 

Y.  Rap.     What  the  deuce  shall  I  do  ?     The  most  impor- 
tant moment  of  my  life. 
O.  Rap.     'Tis  unlucky. 

Y  Rap.  Unlucky  !  'tis  perdition — annihilation — a  mis- 
fortune that — 

O.  Rap.     I  can  mend. 

Y  Rap.     How  ? 

O.  Rap.  By  mending  the  coat. 

Y  Rap.  An  excellent  thought.  Come,  help  me  off — 
quick,  quick 

O.  Rap.     I  always  have  a  needle  in  my  pocket. 
Y.  Rap.     [Rubbing  his  back.]     I  know  you  have. 


C3MI0    AND    AMUSING. 


353 


0.  Rap.     Now  give  it  me. 

Y.  Rap.  What !  suffec  my  father  to  mend  my  coat !  No, 
no,  not  so  bad  as  that,  neither.  As  the  coat  must  be  mended, 
hang-  it,  I'll  mend  it  myself. 

0.  Rap.  Will  you.  though?  Will  you.  Neddy;  will 
you,  Ned?  I  should  like  to  see  you  ;  here's  a  needle  ready 
threaded;  and  a  thimble  ;  you  can't  think  how  I  shall  like 
to  see  you  ;  don't  hurry,  that's  a  dear  boy.  [  Young  Rapid 
sits  down.^  gat/iering  his  legs  under  him — Old  Rapid  puts 
his  spectacles  on.  and  sits  close  to  him.,  looking  on.] 

Y  Rap.  Now  mind,  dad,  when  —  hang  the  needle! 
[Fricks  his  finger.'] 

0.  Rap.     That's  because  you're  in  such  a  hurry. 

Y.  Rap.     When  the  nabob  comes,  sink  the  tailor. 

0.  Rap.     I  w^ill,  but  that's  a  long  stitch 

Y.  Rap.  Be  sure  you  sink  the  tailor;  a  great  deal  de- 
pends upon  the  first  impression  ;  you  shall  be  reading  a 
grave  book,  with  a  melancholy  air. 

0.  Rap.  Then  I  wish  I  had  brought  down  my  book  of 
bad  debts ;  that  would  have  made  me  melancholy  enough. 
[Enter  Mr.  and  Miss  Vortex,  ivho  advance  sloivly ;  the  nabob 

the  side  where  Young  Rapid  is.  Miss  Vortex  the  otlier  side.\ 


^'^^^^'^^Tti^^^^^- 


Y.  Rap.     I — ha,  ha  !  I  say,  dad,  if  the  nabob  was  to  see 
us  now,  ha.  ha ! 

0.  R  7>>     Ha.  ha!  true  ;   but  mind  what  you  are  about. 

Y.  R'lp.     I'll   be   discovered   in  a  situation  that  will  sur- 
prise— a  striking  situation  and  in  some  bold,  elegant  attitude 
{Looks  up  and  sees  the  nabob.] 
Y  30* 


354  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

O.  Rap.  Why  don't  you  finish  the  job  ?  why  don't  you  ? 
\_Sees  the  nabob — tJtey  look  round  tJie  other  wa/y^  and.  see  Miss 
Vortex — they  both  apjjear  ashamed  and  dejected — Young 
Rapid  draws  his  legs  from  under  him.'] 

Vortex.  Gentlemen,  I  and  my  daughter,  Miss  Vortex, 
have  done  ourselves  the  honor  of  waiting  upon  you,  to — 

Miss  Vortex.  But  T  beg  we  may  not  interrupt  you'- 
amusement:  'tis  uncommon  whimsical! 

Y.  Rap.  [Recovering  himself ^\  Yes.  iTia'am,  very  whim- 
sical— I  must  keep  moving.  \Laughs.'\  Ha  ha  !  you  see, 
dad,  I've  won.  I've  won — ha,  ha ! 

O.  Rap.     [  With  amazement.']    Oh  !  he  has  won,  has  he  ? 

Y.  Rap.  Yes,  you  know  I've  won  ;  he,  he!  Why  don't 
you  laugh  ?     [Aside  to  Old  Rapid.] 

O.  Rap.     [  With  difficulty.]     Ha  !  he  ! 

Y.  Rap.  You  see,  madam,  the  fact  is,  I  had  torn  my 
coat ;  so  says  I  to  my  father,  I'll  bet  my  bays  against  your 
opera  box,  that  I  mend  it ;  and  so — ha,  ha  !  [To  Old  Rapid.] 
Laugh  again. 

0.  Rap.     I  can't ;  indeed,  I  can't. 

Y.  Rap.  And  so  I — I  won — upon  my  soul,  I  was  doing 
it  very  well. 

0.  .Rap.  No,  you  were  not ;  you  were  doing  it  a  shame 
to  be  seen. 

Y.  Rap.  [Apart.]  Hush  !  Ah,  father,  you  don't  like  to 
lose. 

Vor.  Well,  gentlemen,  now  this  very  extraordinary  frolic 
is  over — 

Y.  Rap.  Yes,  sir,  it  is  quite  over.  [Aside.]  Thank 
heaven ! 

Vor.     Suppose  we  adjourn  to  Bangalore  Hall  ? 

Y.  Rap.  Sir,  I'll  go  with  you  directly,  with  all  the 
pleasure  in  life.     [Runni/tg.] 

Miss  Vor.     I  believe  my  curricle  is  the  first  carriage. 

0.  Rap.     Dear  me  !  '  [Looking  at  Miss  Vortex.] 

Vor.     My  daughter  seems  to  please  you,  sir. 

0.  Rap.     What  a  shape  ! 

Miss  Vor.     Oh,  sir,  you're  uncommon  polite. 

0.  Rap.  What  elegance  !  what  fashion  !  Upon  the  whole, 
its  the  best  made  little  spencer  I've  seen  in  some  time. 
[Mr.  and  Miss  Vortex  amazed.] 

Y.  Rap.  0,  the  dickens!  The  fact  is,  ma'am,  my  father 
is  the  most  particular  man  on  earth  about  dress — the  beau 
of  his  time — beau  Rapid.     You  know,  father,  they  always 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  355 

called  you  beau  Rapid.  I  dare  say  he  has  had  more  suits 
of  clothes  in  his  house,  than  any  man  in  England. 

Miss  Vor.     An  uncommon  expensive  whim. 

Y.  Rap.     I  don't  thmk  his  fortune  has  suffered  by  it. 

Miss  Vor.  [To  Old  B,apid.~\  Shall  I  have  the  honor  of 
driving  you  ? 

O.  Rap.  Oh.  madam,  T  can't  think  of  giving  you  so 
much  trouble  as  to  drive  me. 

Miss  Vor.     My  dear  sir,  1  shall  be  uncommon  happy. 

O.  Rap.  Oh,  madam!  [Simpers  and  titters  to  his  soUf 
tJien  takes  Miss  Vortexes  hand^  and  trots  off.\ 

Vor.     We'll  follow. 

Y.  Rap.  If  you  please ; — not  that  I  particularly  like  to 
follow. 

Vor.  I  suppose,  sir,  now  summer  approaches,  London 
begins  to  fill  for  the  winter. 

Y.  Rap.     Yes,  sir. 

Vm:  Anything  new  in  high  life  ?  What  is  the  present 
rage  with  ladies  of  fashion  ? 

Y  Rap.  Why,  sir.  as  to  the  ladies — [Aside] — what  shall 
I  say  ?  Oh,  the  ladies,  sir ;  why,  heaven  bless  them,  sir, 
they — they  keep  moving;  but,  to  confess  the  truth,  sir,  my 
fashionable  education  has  been  very  much  neglected. 

Vor.     That's  a  pity. 

Y  Rap.     Very  great  pity,  sir. 

Vor.     Suppose  I  become  your  preceptor  ? 

Y.  Rap.  If  you  would  be  so  kind,  I  would  treasure  any 
little  short  rule. 

Vor.  Why,  there  is  a  short  rule  necessary  for  every  man 
of  fashion  to  attend  to. 

Y.  Rap.     What  is  it  ? 

Vor.     Never  to  reflect. 

Y.  Rap.  Never  reflect !  what,  push  on.  keep  moving ! 
My  dear  sir,  that's  my  way :  suits  me  exactly. 

Vor.     Then  you  must  be  known. 

Y.  Rap.  To  be  sure  ;  I'll  give  away  thousands  in  chari- 
ties. 

Vor.  Charities  !  you  would  be  forgot  in  a  week.  No  be 
known,  you  must  be  mischievous  ;  malice  has  a  much  bet- 
ter memory  than  gratitude.  And,  then,  you  must  be  gal- 
lant: are  there  no  pretty  girls  whose  acquaintance  you  would 
like  the  honor  of? 

[Enter  Servant.] 

Servant.     The  carriage  is  ready. 


<S56  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Y.  Rap.     So  am  I ;  come,  sir.  four  horses,  I  hope. 

Vor.     No,  sir. 

Y.  Rajj.  That's  a  great  ^ity.  Pray,  sir,  will  you  have 
the  goodness  to  tell  your  coachman  to  drive  like  the  old  Harry. 

Vor.     Sir,  to  oblige  you. 

Y.  Rap.     I'll  be  very  much  obliged  to  you. 
[Enter  Waiter.] 

Waiter.     Your  clothes  are  come,  sir. 

Y.  RajJ.     That's  lucky. 

Vor.     Then  I'll  wait  for  you. 

Y.  Rap.  Wait  for  me  !  nobody  need  wait  for  me ;  I'll  be 
with  you  in  a  crack.  Do  you  push  on;  I'll  keep  moving; 
I'll  take  care  nobody  waits  for  me.     {Exeunt  aeverally.} 

Scene  3. 

[Enter  Old  and  Young  Rapid.,  Vortex  aiid  Miss  Vortex.'] 

Miss  Vor      Welcome  to  Bangalore  Hall,  gentlemen. 

Y.  Rap.  Charming  house!  plenty  of  room!  [Runs 
about  and  looks  at  everything.] 

O.  Rap.     A  very  spacious  apartment,  indeed. 

Vor.  Yes  sir;  but  I  declare  T  forget  the  dimensions 
of  this  room 

O.  Rap.  Sir,  if  you  please,  I'll  measure  it — my  cane  is 
exactly  a  yard,  good,  honest  measure ;  'tis  handy — and  that 
mark  is  the  half-yard — 

Y.  Rap.  [Overhears,  and  snatches  the  cane  from  him.] 
Confound  it !  the  pictures,  father — look  at  the  pictures  ; 
[pointing  with  the  cane  ;]  did  you  ever  see  such  charm- 
ing— 

Miss  Vor.     Do  you  like  pictures  ? 

Y.  Rap.  Exceedingly,  ma'am  ;  but  I  should  like  them  a 
great  deal  better,  if  they  just  moved  a  little. 

Miss  Vor.  Ha  !  ha  !  I  must  retire  to  dress  ;  till  dinner, 
gentlemen,  adieu.     [Exit  \ 

Y.  Rap.  [To  Ids  father.]  Father!  you'll  ruin  every- 
thing! can't  you  keep  the  tailor  under. 

Vor      Your  son  seems  rather  impatient. 

O.  Rap.  Very,  sir, — always  was.  I  remember  a  certam 
duke — 

Y.  Rap.  That's  right,  lay  the  scene  high ;  push  the  duke ; 
push  him  as  far  as  he'll  go. 

O.  Rap.  I  will  I  will.  I  remember  a  certain  duke  used 
to  say.  "  Mr.  Rapid,  your  son  is  as  sharp  as  a  needle." 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  35^ 

Y.  Rap.     At  it  again  ! 

O.  Rap.     As  a  needle — 

Y.  Rap.  [Tnterrupting  him.]  Is  true  to  the  pole.  As 
a  needle  is  true  to  the  pole,  says  the  duke,  so  will  your  son, 
says  the  duke,  be  to  everything  spirited  and  fashionable,  saya 
the  duke.  Am  I  always  to  be  tortured  with  your  infernal 
needles  ?     [Aside  to  Old  Rapid.'] 

Vor.  Now  to  sound  them.  [Aside.]  I  hear,  gentlemen, 
your  business  in  this  part  of  the  country,  is  with  Sir  Hubert 
Stanley,  respecting  some  money  transactions. 

O.  Rap.     'Tis  a  secret,  sir. 

Vor.  Oh !  no — the  baronet  avows  his  wish  to  sell  his 
estate. 

O.  Rap.     Oh  !  that  alters  the  case. 

Vor.  I  think  that  it  would  be  a  desirable  purchase  for 
you — I  should  be  happy  in  such  neighbors — and  if  you 
should  want  forty  or  fifty  thousand,  ready  money,  I'll  sup- 
ply it  with  pleasure. 

O.  Rap.  Oh,  sir,  how  kind !  If  my  son  wishes  to  pur- 
chase it.  I  would  rather  lea\;e  it  entirely  with  him. 

Y.  Rap.     And  T  would  rather  leave  it  entirely  to  you. 

Vor.  Very  well,  I'll  propose  for  it.  [Aside.]  There  is  a 
very  desirable  borough  interest ;  then  you  could  sit  in  par- 
liament. 

Y.  Rap.     I  in  parliament?  ha!  ha! 

O.  Rap.     No  !  that  would  be  a  botch. 

Y.  Rap.  No,  no ;  I  was  once  in  the  gallery — crammed 
in — no  moving — expected  to  hear  the  great  guns — up  got  a 
little  fellow,  nobody  knew  who,  gave  us  a  three  hours'  speech 
— I  got  deuced  fidgetty — the  house  called  for  the  question,  I 
joined  in  the  cry — -  the  question^  the  question  !"  says  I — a 
member  spied  me — cleared  the  gallery — got  hustled  by  my 
brother  spectators — obliged  to  scud— oh  !  it  would  never  do 
for  me. 

Vor.     But  you  must  learn  patience. 

Y.  Rap.  Then  make  me  speaker — if  that  wouldn't  teach 
me  patience,  nothing  would. 

Vor.      Do  you  dislike,  sir  parliamentary  eloquence? 

O.  Rap.  Sir,  I  never  heard  one  of  your  real,  downright 
parliamentary  speeches  in  my  life  —never.     [Yaicfis.] 

Y.  Rap.  By  your  yavi-^ning,  I  should  think  you  had 
heard  a  great  many. 

Vor.  Oh,  how  lucky  !  at  last  I  shall  get  my  dear  speech 
spoken      Sir,  I  am  a  member  an  J  I  mean  to — 


358  ne;w  school  dialogues. 

Y.  Rap.     Keep  moving. 

Vm:     Why,  I  mean  to  speak,  I  assure  you  ;  and — 

Y.  Rap.     Push  on,  then. 

Vor.    What,  speak  my  speech?    That  I  will — I'll  speak  it 

Y.  Rap.  Oh,  the  mischief!  don't  yawn  so.  [Tb  Ola 
Rapid.] 

O.  Rap.     I  never  get  a  comfortable  nap,  never ! 

Y.  Rap.  You  have  a  very  good  chance  now — confound 
all  speeches — oh  !     [Aside.] 

Vor.  Pray,  be  seated.  [They  sit  on  each  side  Vortex.] 
Now  we'll  suppose  that  the  chair.     [Pointing  to  a  chair.] 

O.  Rap.     Suppose  it  the  chair!  why, it  isachair,is'ntit? 

Vor.     Pshaw  I   I  mean — 

Y.  Rap.     He  knows  what  you  mean — 'tis  his  humor. 

Vor.     Oh,  he's  witty  ! 

Y.  Rap.  Oh  !  remarkably  brilliant  indeed.  [Signifi' 
cantly  tohisfatJier.] 

Vor.     What,  are  you  a  wit,  sir  1 

O.  Rap.     A  what?  yes  T  am— I  am  a  wit. 

Vw.  Well,  now  I'll  begin.  Oh.  what  a  delicious  mo- 
ment I  The  house,  when  they  approve,  cry,  '•  Hear  him,  hear 
him  !"     I  only  give  you  a  hint  in  case  anything  should  strike. 

Y.  Rap.     Push  on.     I  can  never  stand  it.     [Aside.  | 

Vor.  Now  shall  I  charm  them.  [Addresses  the  chair.] 
"  Sir,  had  I  met  your  eye  at  an  earlier  hour,  I  should  not 
have  blinked  the  present  question,  but  having  caught  what 
has  fallen  from  the  opposite  side,  I  shall  scout  the  idea  of 
going  over  the  usual  ground."  What!  no  applause  yet? 
[Aside. — During  this  timie  Old  Rajnd  has  fa  lien  asleep,  and 
Young  Rapid,  after  showi?ig  great  fretfulness  and  inipa- 
tie?ice^  runs  to  the  back  scene,  throws  up  the  ivindow  and 
looks  out.]  "  But  I  shall  proceed,  and  I  trust,  without  in- 
terruption." [Turns  round  and  sees  Old  Rapid  aslccp?[ 
Upon  my  soul,  this  is  what  do  you  mean,  sir?  [Old 
Rapid  awakes^ 

O.  Rap.     What's  the  matter  ?     Hear  him  !  hear  him  ! 

Vor.  Pray,  sir,  don't  you  blush  ?  [Sees  Young  Rajnd 
at  the  windoiv.]     What  the  deuce  ! 

Y.  Rap.     [Looking  around.]     Hear  him  !  hear  him  ! 

Vor.     By  the  soul  of  Cicero,  'tis  too  much. 

O.  Rap.  Oh,  Neddy,  for  shame  of  yourself  to  fall  asleep  ! 
T  mean,  to  look  out  of  the  window.  I  am  very  sorry,  sir, 
anything  should  go  across  the  grain.  I  say,  Ned  smooth 
him  down.     [Aside.] 


COMIC    AND    AMUSIXG  359 

Y.  Rap.  1  will,  I  will ;  but  what  shall  I  say  ?  [Asrde.] 
The  fact  is,  sir,  I  heard  a  cry  of  fire — upon — the — the — the 
water,  and — 

Vor.    Well,  but  do  you  wish  to  hear  the  end  of  my  speech  ? 

Y.  Rap.     Upon  my  honor,  I  do. 

Vor.  Then  we'll  only  suppose  frhis  little  interruption  a 
message  from  the  lords,  or  something  of  that  sort.  [They 
sit.  Young  Rapid  fretful.]     Where  did  I  leave  off? 

Y  Rap.  *  Oh!  I  recollect;  at,  "I  therefore  briefly  con- 
clude with  moving  an  adjournment."     [Rising.] 

Vor.  Nonsense  1  no  such  thing.  [Putting  him  down  in 
the  chair.]  Oh,  I  remember!  '•  I  shall  therefore  proceed, 
and  I  trust  without  interruption" — 

[Enter  Servant.] 

Vor.  Get  out  of  the  room,  you  villain  ! — "  Without  inter- 
ruption"— 

Ser.     I  say,  sir — 

Y.  Rap.     Hear  him  !  hear  him  ! 

Ser.     Dinner  is  waiting. 

Y.Rap.  [Jumping  up.]  Dinner  waiting!  Come  along,  sir, 

Vor.     Never  mind  the  dinner 

Y.  Rap.     But  I  like  it  smoking. 

O  Rap.     So  do  I :  be  it  ever  so  little,  let  me  have  it  hot. 

Vor.     Won't  you  hear  my  speech  ? 

Y.  Rap.  To  be  sure  we  will — but  now  to  dinner.  Come, 
we'll  move  together.  Capital  speech  !  Push  on,  sir.  Come 
along  dad.  Push  him  on,  dad.  [Exeunt,  fmcing  Vortex  out] 


Si'-  Giles.    Cook  it  any  way.    Prithee,  leave  me. 
Greedy,.    Without  order  for  the  dumpling  ? 

^  JVew  fVay  to  pay  Old  Debt$. 


-SGO  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


XXXIII.--FROM  FISH  OUT  OF  WATER.— Z^nu. 

SIR  GEORGE  COURTLEY ALDERMAN  GAYFARE CHARLES  GAY- 
FARE STEWARD SAM  SAVORY FOOTMAN ELLEN  COURT- 
LEY LUCY. 

Scene  1. — The  ante-room  in  the  house  of  Sir  George  Courtley — on 
one  side  a  fire-place,  with  fire;  on  the  other  side,  a  Avri ting-table,  with 
pens,  ink,  and  paper — a  door  leading  to  an  inner   apartment. 

Steward.  \Spealdng  ivithout.~\  Don't  tell  me,  sir ;  say 
that  I'm  not  at  home  ;  I  shall  not  be  at  home  these  two 
hours. 

[Ente?'  Steward^  with  a  bundle  of  letters  in  his  hand."] 
In  fact,  one  might  as  well  be  a  minister  as  a  minister's  fac- 
totum. Since  my  master's  appointment  as  envoy  to  Copen- 
hagen, I've  scarcely  had  a  moment's  peace,  night  or  day 
Forty  applications  did  I  receive  for  the  situation  of  valet,  be- 
fore I  could  dispose  of  it  to  my  satisfaction !  the  place  of 
cook  still  remains  upon  my  hands:  that,  with  a  little  manage- 
ment, may  be  worth  something ;  and.  now  that  Sir  George 
has  confided  to  me  the  task  of  procuring  him  a  secretary,  I 
suppose,  if  our  stay  would  admit  of  it,  I  should  be  as  much 
courted  as  the  first  lord  of  the  treasury. 
^Enter  Alderman  Gayfare.  pushing  aside  a  Footman.^  wfto 
attempts  to  impede  his  entrance?\ 

Gayfare.  \To  Footman.]  Stand  out  of  the  way;  what, 
denied  admission  to  the  house  of  Sir  George  Courtley  !  [Exit 
Footman.'] 

Stew.     [Aside.']     Ha  my  master's  old  friend  and  banker. 

Gay.  Well  Steward,  how  do  you  do?  I'm  glad  I've 
found  an  old  acquaintance,  at  last.  I  don't  wonder  at  the 
footman  not  knowing  me  ;  for,  what  with  my  business  in  the 
city,  and  your  master's  residing  so  much  in  the  country,  I 
verily  believe  'tis  nearly  two  years  since  we  met;  however, 
[  now  wish  to  speak  with  him.  on  business  of  importance. 

Steiv.  I'm  sorry  for  that.  sir.  for  his  excellency  is  at  this 
moment  closeted  with  one  or  two  noblemen  of  the  cabmet. 
and  cannot  possibly  be  disturbed. 

Gay.     When  does  he  intend  setting  out  for  Copenhagen  ? 

Stew.  To  morrow  morning,  sir  ;  his  own  and  Miss  Court- 
ley's  trunks  a-  already  packed,  and  on  the  carriage. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  361 

Gay.  [Aside.']  Oh,  ho  !  his  daughter  accompanies  him  ! 
Then  Charles's  motive  is  evident  enough,  and  no  time  must 
be  lost.  [^To  Steward.']  Pray,  has  Sir  George  engaged  a 
secretary  ? 

Stew.  No  sir ;  but  he  has  immediate  occasion  for  one, 
and,  being  so  importantly  occupied  himself,  has  deputed  me 
to  obtain  one  for  him. 

Gay.     Indeed  !  then,  Steward,  you  must  do  me  a  favor. 

Stew.  [Aside.]  Just  as  I  expected  !  A  banker,  too  ;  I 
smell  a  thumping  fee.  [To  Gay/are.]  I  assure  you,  sir, 
that  if  I  can  be  in  any  way  useful — 

Gay.  You  can  ;  highly  useful.  I  expect  that,  in  the 
course  of  an  hour,  a  young  man,  of  good  person  and  genteel 
address,  will  call  here,  to  solicit  the  appointment;  and,  for 
very  urgent  reasons,  I  desire  you  will  detain  him. 

Stetv.  [  Taking  an  empty  purse  from  his  pocket.,  carelessly 
playing  with  it.,  and  looking  askance  at  Gayfare^s  pockets.'] 
If  you  particularly  wish  the  young  man  to  have  the  place — 

Gay.  No,  Steward,  you  mistake  me  ;  I  particularly  wish 
that  the  young  man  should  not  have  the  place,  but  that  you 
should  find  some  means  of  preventing  his  departure  until  I 
have  spoken  with  Sir  George.     What  time  does  he  dine  ? 

Stew.     At  six  o'clock,  sir. 

Gay.  [Looking  at  his  watch ^  And 'tis  now  four  ;  very 
well.  Tell  Sir  George  I  shall  dine  with  him.  And,  stew- 
ard, you  know  my  taste ;  let  us  have  a  dish  of  something 
particular.  Have  you  got  as  good  a  cook  now  as  you  used 
to  have  ? 

Stew.  Why,  unfortunately,  sir,  just  at  this  moment,  we 
have  no  man  cook. 

Gay.  What!  no  man  cook?  Why,  your  master  might 
as  well  go  abroad  without  his  credentials.  I  affirm,  steward, 
a  good  cook  and  a  good  butler  are  of  more  utility  in  the  suite 
of  an  envoy,  than  twenty  secretaries.  The  most  natural  road 
to  men's  hearts,  is  through  their  stomachs.  Only  let  two 
men  concur  in  praising  the  same  dishes,  and  the  same  wine, 
'tis  a  hundred  to  one  that,  before  they  part,  they'll  agree  on 
all  other  subjects,  both  natural  and  personal. 

Stew.  Perhaps,  sir,  his  excellency  is  of  your  opinion,  for 
he  has  ordered  me  to  hire  one  as"Soon  as  possible. 

Gay.  Has  he  ?  Then  I  can  put  you  in  a  way  of  doing 
honor  to  your  commission.  About  a  week  ago,  I  had  one 
of  the  best  cooks  in  London,  whom  I  discharged,  in  a  mo- 
ment of  anger.     I  know  he's  still  out  of  place,  and   I'll  de- 

31 


{i62  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

sire  that  he  may  be  sent  to  you  in  the  course  of  the   day, 
Good  morning,  steward.     [Exit  Gay  fare.] 

Stew.  What  the  deuce  can  be  that  old  alderman's  motive 
for  wishing  the  young  man  to  be  detained  ?  Who  can  he 
be  ? — Time  will  show.  And,  as  he  would  not  take  my  hint, 
and  stamp  his  orders  with  the  seal  of  office,  I  shall  either 
obey  them  or  not,  as  I  find  most  convenient. 
[Enter  Ellen  Courtley.l 

Ellen.  [Peeping in.}  Steward,  steward.  [The  Steward 
turns.']  Pray,  steward,  has  any  one  made  application  to  you 
for  the  place  of  secretary  1 

Stew.  [Aside.']  Oh,  ho  !  are  you  thereabouts  ?  who  next, 
I  wonder  ?  [-To  Ellen.']  No,  madam,  not  yet ;  but  Sir  George 
has  directed  me  to  engage  one,  without  fail,  in  the  course  of 
the  day. 

El.  I  was  aware  that  you  would  receive  such  orders, 
and,  therefore,  I  have  come  to  exert  my  influence  with  you 
in  favor  of  a  certain  person. 

Stew.  Might  it  not  be  well  to  mention  the  affair  to  his 
excellency  ? 

El.  [Confused.]  Oh!  no!  by  no  means;  papa  might 
suspect  that  my  interesting  myself  in  favor  of  the  young 
man,  arose  from  some  partial  motive,  and — 

Stew.     Very  true,  madam. 

El.  Besides,  papa  is  engaged,  and,  as  I  expect  that  the 
young  gentleman  will  wait  upon  you  almost  immediately — 

Stew.     Indeed,  madam  ! 

El.  Yes;  and  he  has  been  so  strongly  recommended  to 
me,  by  a  person  in  whose  judgment  I  have  the  most  implicit 
confidence,  that — 

Stew. ,  I  beg  your  pardon,  madam,  do  you  think  the 
young  gentleman  has  any  connection  or  acquaintance  with 
Alderman  Gayfare  ? 

El.  [Aside.,  with  astonishment.']  Gracious!  who  can  have 
told  ?  [To  Steward.]  Yes,  yes  ;  I  believe  they  are  slightly 
acquainted  ;   but  why  do  you  ask  that  ? 

Stew.  [Aside.]  Mum — I  must  not  tell  her  that  the  old 
gentleman  has  been  here.  [To  Ellen]  I  was  only  fearful, 
madam,  that  such  a  circumstance  might  be  rather  against 
him. 

El.  Indeed  !  [Eagerly.]  Tell  me,  steward,  have  you 
heard  anythmg  to  his  disadvantage  ? 

Stew.  No.  madam,  not  a  word  ;  but,  to  tell  you  the  truth, 
T  have  been  peremptorily  desired  to  refuse  him  the  situation 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  363 

El.  To  refuse  him  !  who  can  have  been  so  envious  ? 
Why,  he  is  one  of  the  most  amiable,  the  most  intelligent, 
the  most  elegant  and  accomplished — 

Steiv.  \^Aside.']  Heyday!  [To  Ellen.']  You  seem  to 
know  him  very  intimately,  madam. 

El.  Yes — no — that  is — I  have  heard  so  much  in  his  fa- 
vor, and  am  so  anxious  for  his  success,  that,  if  you  have  any 
desire  to  oblige  me,  Mr.  Steward — 

Steiv.  Madam,  your  wishes  are  orders,  and  you  may  de- 
pend upon  their  being  obeyed.  But  suppose  he  should  not 
present  himself  in  the  course  of  this  afternoon  1 

El.     You  may  rest  assured  that  he  will. 

Stew.    Pray,  madam,  what  may  be  the  young  man's  name? 

El.  [Confused.']  His  name?  [Aside.]  How  unlucky 
that  Charles  neglected  to  tell  me  what  name  he  intended  to 
assume.  [To  Steward.]  His  name?  bless  me,  I  entirely 
forget.  [A  bell  rings.]  Ha!  [She  looks  at  her  watch.]  'Tis 
exactly  the  time  at  which  he  was  to  be  here,  and  I'll  lay  my 
life  that  he  is  now  at  the  door.  I  entreat  you,  steward,  to  go 
and  receive  him. 

Stew.     Yes,  madam.     [Exit  Steivard.] 

El.  Only  let  the  scene  which  we  have  concerted  prove 
successful,  and  I  shall  then  accompany  my  father  and  his 
mission  as  cheerfully  as  he  can  wish.  And  why  should  it 
not  succeed  ?  The  votaries  of  love  are  fairly  entitled  to  his 
protection  in  adop^ng  disguise,  since  he  himself  suggests  the 
expedient,  by  his  example.  When  refused  admission  to  the 
heart,  in  propria  persona,  he  will  assume  a  thousand  shapes, 
rather  than  be  foiled  in  an  enterprise. 

SONG. 

When  the  ancients  first  strove 

To  personify  love, 
They  gave  him  the  semblance  of  tenderest  youth  ; 

With  wings  they  arrayed  him, 

Quite  naked  they  made  him, 
In  token  of  innocence,  swiftness,  and  truth: 
Then  armed  him  with  archery's  weapon,  to  show 
The  wounds  he  inflicts  on  us  mortals  below. 

But  each  symbol,  assigned 
To  the  godhead,  we  find 
Himself  can  dispense  with,  whene'er  'tis  his  pleasure; 


364  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

His  form  can  be  wingless, 

His  shafts  can  be  stingless. 
And  crafty  the  urchin  can  be  beyond  measure; 
While,  his  votaries'  souls  to  obscure,  or  illume, 
Every  age  he  can  ape,  every  habit  assume.      [Exit.] 

\Reenter  Steward.] 

Stew.  Miss  Ellen  was  mistaken  in  supposing  the  young 
man  was  at  the  door ;  however,  as  both  herself  and  the  al- 
derman were  so  positive.  I  should  think  he'll  be  here  ere 
long.  Well,  upon  my  word,  'tis  very  odd.  Who,  in  the 
name  of  wonder,  can  this  young  fellow  be,  that  there's  so 
much  fuss  about?  Egad,  I  don't  care;  for,  if  I  can  oblige 
Miss  Ellen,  a  fig  for  old  Gay  fare. 

[Enter  Footman.] 

Footman.  Mr.  Steward,  his  excellency  wants  to  speak 
with  you  immediately. 

Steiv.  Very  well ;  and  d'ye  hear,  if  a  young  man  should 
call  and  ask  for  me  desire  him  to  take  a  chair,  and  I'll  wait 
upon  him  in  a  few  moments  ;  I've  desired  the  porter  to  show 
him  up.     [Exit  Steward.] 

[Enter  Sam  Savory  .^looking  around.] 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Hollo  !  Here's  a  house,  and  a  lot  of 
servants.  If  their  larder's  as  rich  as  their  liveries,  the 
cook's  place  is  no  sinecure. 

Foot.  Pray,  sir,  are  you  the  gentleman  Mr.  Steward  ex- 
pected ? 

Sam.  [Aside.]  The  gentleman?  Egad,  I'll  say  yes, 
and  then  I'm  sure  to  see  him.  [To  Footma?t.]  Yes,  I  wish 
to  see  him  on  very  particular  business. 

Foot.  He's  engaged  at  this  moment  with  my  master,  sir; 
but,  if  you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  sit  down,  I'll  send  him  to  you 
as  soon  as  he  is  at  leisure.     [Exit  Footman.] 

Sam.  Come,  that's  a  civil  chap,  enough,  considering  he 
wears  so  much  lace  Ah  !  it's  just  the  same  with  place- 
hunting,  as  it  is  with  cookery ;  there's  nothing  to  be  done 
without  sauce  ;  and,  if  I  had  not  as  much  of  it  as  any  buck 
of  my  inches,  I  should  never  have  ventured  to  come  without 
recommendations,  to  ask  for  the  situation  of  cook  to  an  am- 
bassador. There  will  be  some  difference  between  this  place 
and  that  of  my  old  master.  Alderman  Gayfare.  There,  I 
had  only  one  taste  to  please ;  for,  though  I'm  told  he  has  a 
son,  he  never  made  his  appearance  whilst  I  was  there.  Well, 
if  his  excellency  should  hire  me,  only  let  him  be  as  fond  of 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  365 

tid  bits  as  the  alderman,  and  if  I  don't  tickle  his  palate 
to  the  tune  of  forty  pounds  a  year— but,  here  comes  the 
steward. 

[Enter  Steward  and  Footnia^i.'] 

Foot.  [Poi7iti7ig  to  Savory.']  That  is  the  gentleman,  sir. 
[Exit  Footman^ 

Steiv.  \Boiving  to  Sam.']  May  I  beg,  sir,  to  be  favored 
with  your  name? 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Why,  the  steward  is  as  polite  as  the 
footman.  [To  Steivard.]  My  name,  sir,  is  Savory,  Samuel 
Savory. 

Stew.  And  pray,  sir,  have  you  ever  served  in  the  ca- 
pacity which  you  now  wish  to  exercise  under  his  excel- 
lency ? 

Sam.     Oh,  bless  you,  yes  ;  all  my  life. 

Stew.  May  I  be  allowed  *to  inquire  who  was  your  last 
employer  1 

Sam.  To  be  sure  you  may ;  I'm  neither  ashamed  nor 
afraid,  for,  though  he  hasn't  given  me  a  character,  he  must, 
if  I  want  one.     I  lived  last  with  Alderman  Grayfare. 

Stew.  [Aside.]  Gad,  this  is  the  mysterious  gentleman, 
sure  enough.  [To  Sam.]  I  saw  the  alderman,  sir,  only  a 
few  minutes  ago,  and  he  spoke  to  me  concerning  you. 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Indeed  !  [To  Stevmrd.]  I  should  not 
wonder,  now,  if  he  said  some  ill-natured  thing  or  other 
about  me. 

Stew.  Why,  really,  sir,  between  ourselves.  I  have  some 
reason  to  think  that  he's  not  very  cordially  your  friend. 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Starve  his  ungrateful  stomach,  he  has 
told  me  a  hundred  times  that  I  was  a  cook  fit  for  an  em 
peror.  Well,  old  father  has  got  his  wish — he  said  he  hoped 
I  should  not  get  the  place,  because  he  wanted  me  not  to  go 
abroad.  [He  takes  up  his  hat  and  goes  towards  the  door  ] 
Very  well,  sir.  good  morning — there's  no  scarcity  of  places, 
if  I  can't  get  this — 

Stew.  Stay,  sir.  although  you  don't  appear  to  be  in  the 
alderman's  good  graces,  fortunately  for  you,  you  have  a 
powerful  advocate  in  another  quarter.  Miss  Courtley,  his 
excellency's  daughter,  has  taken  a  deep  interest  in  your  wel- 
fare. 

Sam.     His  excellency's  daughter  !  my  welfare  ! 

Stew.     Yes,  in  consequence  of  the  very  satisfactory  ac- 
counts she  has  received  of  your  talents  and  address,  she  has 
earnestly  desired  me  to  bestow  the  office* upon  you ;  and  as 
31* 


366  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

I  am  more  anxious  to  oblige  .her  than  the  alderman,  you 
may.  from  this  moment,  consider  yourself  as  attached  to  his 
excellency's  suite. 

Sam.  [Aside.']  Huzza !  there's  nothing  like  petticoat 
interest,  after  ail.  [He  lays  down  his  hat  and  comes  for- 
VMrd^  rubbing  his  hands  and  eijing  himself  ivith  satisfac- 
tion.'] Either  she  must  have  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  figure 
as  I  came  to  the  door,  or  else  she  must  be  acquainted  with 
somebody  that  has  tasted  my  cookery ;  and  whichever  it 
is — 

Steiv.     With  regard  to  your  salary,  sir  1 

Sam.  [Aside.]  My  salary?  That's  an  ambassador's 
term  ;  I  suppose  I  should  have  said  wages.  [To  Steward.] 
As  you  were  going  to  say,  sir,  my  salary — 

Steiv.  I  am  authorized  to  say.  that  it  will  be  three  hun- 
dred a  year. 

Sam.  [Astonished.]  Three  hundred  a — I  beg  your  par- 
don, will  you  just  be  so  good  as  to  say  that  again. 

Stew.  [I77i2)ressively.]  Your  salary,  sir,  will  be  three 
hundred  a  year. 

Sam.  [Overjoyed.]  Three  hundred  a  year!  there's  a 
place !     The  Mansion  House  is  a  trifle  to  this. 

Stew.  And  you  will  dine  on  all  occasions  with  his  excel- 
lency. 

Sa7n.  Come,  Mr.  Steward,  now  you're  cutting  it  a  little 
too  fat.  The.  place  and  the  three  hundred  a  year,  are  very 
well;  but  as  for  dining  with  his  excellency — no — no — that's 
a  little  too  good. 

Steio.  Well,  sir,  you  are  welcome  to  have  your  joke,  but 
snch,  I  assure  you,  is  his  excellency's  wish.  In  the  mean- 
time, sir,  should  you  have  occasion  to  enter  on  your  func- 
tions before  our  departure,  you  will  make  use  of  this  room. 

Sam.  [Looking  around.^  This  room  1  [Aside.]  Why. 
here's  neither  spits,  dishes,  nor  stewpans. 

Stew.  [Pointing  to  the  table.']  There  are  pens,  ink,  and 
paper  ;  if  you  have  occasion  for  anything  else,  you  will  have 
the  goodness  to  ring,  and  I'll  take  care  that  you  shall  have 
immediate  attendance 

Sa77i.  Pens,  ink,  and  paper!  [Aside.]  Either  here's 
some  glorious  mistake,  or  else  your  diplomatic  cooks  are  like 
physicians,  and  do  nothing  else  but  write  receipts  to  be  made 
up  by  their  kitchen  apothecaries.  Giblets !  what  a  house- 
[To  Steward.]  Excuse  my  curiosity,  sir,  but  I  should  re- 
ally like  to  know  e!xactly  what  I  am  1 


COMIO    AND    AMUSING.  367 

Stma.     I  don't  understarxi  you  sir. 

Sa7n.  I  mean,  what  place  was  it  the  young  lady  re- 
quested for  me  1 

Stew.  That  which  you  came  to  solicit,  sir,  that  of  secre- 
tary. 

Sam.  Oh!  that  of  secretary.  [Aside.]  Oh!  that  ac- 
counts for  the  three  hundred  a  year.  Egad,  then  it  could 
not  be  for  my  cookery,  and  she's  taken  a  fancy  to  my  person, 
sure  enough.  [To  Steward.]  So,  then,  I'm  to  be  the  lady's 
secretary. 

Stetv.  [Aside.]  He's  a  queer  fellow.  [To  Savo?"!/.] 
You  are  jocular,  sir,  or  perhaps  you  think  the  terms  not  pro- 
portionate to  the  appointment,  which  is  that  of  official  secre- 
tary to  his  excellency. 

Sa7n.     Official  secretary  to  his  excellency  1 

Stew.     Yes,  sir,  if  you  think  proper  to  accept  of  it. 

Sam.  Accept  of  it !  Oh,  bless  you.  yes  !  to  be  sure  I 
will.  [Aside.]  It  shall  never  be  said  that  I  stood  in  the 
way  of  my  own  good  fortune.  |  Surveying  himseJf.]  I 
don't  think  I  look  exactly  like  an  ambassador's  secretary  at 
present;  but  stop  till  they  see  me  in  the  dress  I  wear  when 
I  go  to  the  theater,  or  Van xh all. 

[Enter  Footman^  with  a  portmanteau.] 

Foot.     [To  Sam.]     Is  this  your  portmanteau,  sir? 

Sam.  [To  Foot?nan.]  Yes.  [To  Steivard.]  As  I  heard 
that  his  excellency  was  to  set  off  to-morrow  morning,  I 
brought  it  in  my  hand,  in  case  of  my  being  engaged,  and 
eft  it  in  the  hall. 

Stew.  If  you  wish  to  dress,  sir,  the  servant  will  show 
you  to  your  apartment. 

Sa?7i.  The  very  thing  I  was  wishing  for.  [Aside.]  Ha. 
ha!  the  old  proverb  forever — only  give  a  man  a  friend,  and 
his  fortune's  made.  [Exit  Footman,  carrying  the  portman- 
teau., followed  by  Savoo'y.] 

Steiv.  Well,  I  think  I  have  managed  this  affair  to  the 
satisfaction  of  all  parties.  I  have  gratified  Miss  Ellen,  by 
giving  the  place  to  her  protege  ;  and  as  the  alderman  is 
coming  to  dinner,  he  is  sure  to  find  him,  if  he  wants  him 
Our  establishment  is  now  complete,  with  the  exception  of  a 
cook,  and  if  the  old  banker  would  but  send  the  person  he 
mentioned — 

[Enter  Charles  Gay  fare.] 
Charles.     [Aside^     This   surely   must   be   the   stewar(t 
whom  Ellen  mentioned  to  me. 


368  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Stew.  [Turning^  and  perceiving  Charles.']  Pray,  sir, 
what  are  your  commands? 

Char.  I  have  been  informed  that  there  is  a  vacancy  in 
Sir  George  Courtley's  establishment,  and  have  taken  the  lib- 
erty to  call,  for  the  purpose  of  offering. 

Stew.  [Aside.]  Oh  !  the  cook ;  upon  my  word,  he's  a 
smart,  handsome  young  fellow.  [To  Charles.]  I  presume 
you  were  sent  by  your  late  master. 

Char.     No,  sir,  I  was  not  sent  by  any  one. 

Stew.  Then  you  are  too  late,  young  man  ;  you  are  antici- 
pated by  a  candidate  who  is  very  strongly  recommended. 

Char.  I  beg  leave  to  assure  you,  sir,  that  I  also  can  offer 
some  flattering  references — General  Carver,  Sir  Benjamin 
Barbacue,  and — 

Stew.  Ay.,  those  are  excellent  names,  certainly,  on  the 
list  of  epicures,  and  if  it  were  not  that  his  excellency's  old 
friend,  Alderman  Gayfare — 

Char.  [Aside.  |  My  father  !  What  in  the  name  of  won- 
der can  this  mean  ?  Ellen  informed  me  that  they  had  not 
met  these  two  years.  [To  Steward.]  I  am  informed,  sir, 
that  the  appointment  is  in  your  power. 

Stew.  To  be  sure  it  is.  Why,  you  don't  imagine  that  his 
excellency  troubles  his  head  about  the  hiring  of  servants  ? 

Ch.  [Aside.]  Hiring  of  servants  !  What  an  arrogant 
boor  it  is  !  [To  Steward.]  Well,  sir,  I  have  not  the  pleas- 
ure to  be  personally  known  to  you,  but  if  such  considera- 
tions as  I  can  offer,  have  sufficient  weight — [He  slides  a 
'purse  into  Steward'' s  hand.] 

Stew.  [  Weighing  tJie  purse  in  his  hand.]  Why,  certainly 
the  considerations  which  you  have  advanced  are  weighty 
ones.  Anxious  to  oblige  every  one,  but  really,  for  once,  I 
must  allow  intrinsic  merit  to  take  place  of  favor ;  and  there- 
fore, as  you  have  arrived  first,  and  as  there  is  immediate  oc- 
casion for  your  services,  the  place  is  yours. 

Char.  [Aside.]  Bravo!  Thank  fortune,  all  goes  right, 
thus  far. 

Stew.  The  terms  shall  be  such  as  you  cannot  disapprove; 
but  in  the  meantime,  you  must  go  to  work  directly.  Come, 
follow  me,  and  I'll  show  you  to  the  larder. 

Chojr.  To  the  larder !  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  but  I'm 
not  hungry  at  present. 

Stew.  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  but  his  excellency  is — come,  quick — 
only  a  little  plain  dinner  for  four ;  Sir  George,  Miss  Ellen 
a  friend,  and  Mr.  Savory,  the  new  secretary. 


COMICr   AND    AMUSING.  369 

Char.     The  new  secretary? 

Stew.  Yes,  a  young  man  who  has  just  been  appointed  to 
the  situation. 

Char.  [Jsic/e.]  Has  he  been  making- game  of  me  ?  [ITo 
Steivard.'\  And  pray,  sir,  what  may  be  the  situation  which 
you  have  just  bestowed  upon  me  ? 

Slew.  Wh)/,  man  do  you  come  and  ask  for  a  place 
without  knowing  what  it  is — didn't  you  ask  for  the  vacancy '? 

Char.     Certainly,  I  did. 

Stew.  Then  you  ought  to  have  known  that  the  only  va- 
cant place  was  that  of  cook,  and  if  you  are  not  a  cook,  why 
did  you  come  pestering  me,  when  I  have  other  business  to 
attend  to  ? 

Char.  [Aside^  A  cook  !  Here's  a  dilemma.  How  can 
I  apprise  Ellen  of  the  mistake  ? 

Stew.     Are  you  a  cook,  or  are  you  not  ? 

Char.  Cook?  Yes,  to  be  sure  I  am.  [Aside.]  Egad, 
I  see  no  other  resource — so  I'll  e'en  be  a  cook,  until  I  gain 
an  interview  with  her.     [J.  bell  rings.] 

Foot.     [Without^     A  cup  of  chocolate  for  Miss  Courtley. 

Stew.  Come,  do  you  hear  ?  chocolate  for  Miss  Courtley, 
immediately. 

Char.  [Aside.]  An  excellent  opportunity.  [To  Steward.^ 
Where  is  it  ? 

Stew.  [J'o  Charles^  As  you  are  a  stranger  to  the  house, 
you  shall  make  it  here.  [To  Footman.,  who  enters.']  Bring 
a  chocolate  pot  instantly. 

Foot.  Yes,  sir  ;  and  his  excellency  ordered  me  to  give 
you  this  paper.     [  Gives  a  paper  aiid  exit.] 

Stew.     Ha,  here  comes  our  new  secretary. 
[Enter  Sam  Savory,  full  dressed,  and  awkwardly  assuming 
the  manners  of  a  gentleman^ 

Char.     [Aside.]     Egad,  he's  a  strange-looking  mortal. 

Sam.     [To  Steward.]     Who  is  that  young  man? 

Stew.  He  is  a  cook,  whom  I  have  just  hired. 
.Sam.  A  cook.  [Aside.]  'Tis  strange  I  should  not  know 
him.  [To  Steward.]  Remember,  sir,  'tis  a  place  of  import- 
ance, and  not  to  be  bestowed  on  every  scurvy,  unknown  fel- 
low. I'll  examine  him.  [To  Charles,  and  addressing  him 
with  importance.]     Pray,  young  man,  what's  your  name  ? 

Char.  My  name  sir — is —  [Aside.]  Whew  !  the  name 
I  had  resolved  upon,  will  never  do  for  a  cook. 

Sam.     [Aloud.]     What's  your  name,  sirrah"? 

Char.     [Aside.]     I  have  it     [To  Savory.]    Gammon, sir 
Z 


370  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Sam  Gammon.  Humph  ;  there  are  plenty  of  your  name 
in  most  trades ;  but,  I  confess,  I  don't  remember  it  in  our — 
that  is,  the  cooking  line.  And  pray,  who  might  be  your  first 
master  ? 

Char.  My  first  master  ?  [Aside.]  What  the  mischief 
shall  I  say?     [To  Sajn^     My  first  master, sir,  was  Birch. 

Sam.  [Turning  to  Stetvard.]  Humph;  his  knowledge 
of  Birch  shows  that  he  had  some  education.  [To  Charles.] 
But  'tis  a  bad  school,  my  lad.  Your  public  concerns,  where 
you  make  soups  by  tuns,  and  ragouts  by  pailfuls.  spoil  the 
hand  for  delicacies,  which  are  the  perfection  of  the  art ! 
What,  have  you  never  lived  in  private  faniilies  of  distinction  ? 

Char.  Private  families,  sir  ?  Oh,  yes,  sir.  [Aside] 
Egad,  I'll  lay  it  on  thick.  [To  Sam.]  With  two  dukes, 
three  marquises,  and  a  baronet. 

Sam.  Oh  !  that's  a  different  matter  :  then  you  need  not 
flinch  from  an  examination.  [Aside.]  I'll  roast  him 
a  bit. 

Char.  [Aside.]  If  I'm  to  undergo  a  culinary  catechism, 
it's  all  over  with  me. 

Sam.  Come,  young  man,  I  shall  not  be  satisfied  with  a 
roast  beef  and,  plum  pudding  mterrogation.  If  you  come  to 
offer  yourself  as  cook  to  an  ambassador,  you  must  not  expect 
to  be  questioned  about  Scotch  collops  and  Irish  stews ;  no, 
sir,  nor  about  sauces,  fricassee,  or  pastry,  where  memory  is  as 
good  as  talent.     [Aside.]    Ha,  ha,  ha!  he  looks  as  pale  as — 

Char.  [Aside.]  Oh  !  hang  this  fellow ;  his  epicurean 
erudition  is  quite  terrific. 

Sam.  No,  no,  young  fellow,  we'll  not  dabble  in  the  A,  B, 
C,  of  the  art.  Come,  sir,  I'll  make  one  question  suffice  for 
all,  and  that  shall  be  worthy  of. you,  if  you're  the  best  cook 
in  Europe.  Pray,  how  do  you  prepare  marinated  pheasants' 
poults  a  la  braise  imperiale  ?  [Aside.]  Now  I  think  he's 
done  brown. 

Char.  [Aside.]  Marinated  pheasants'  a  la — Oh,  Jupiter, 
this  is  worse  and  worse.  A  man  ought  to  have  served  in  the 
kitchen  of  Heliogabalus,  to  carry  this  through.  [To  Sam.] 
Why,  really,  sir,  the  extent  of  your  reading  on  the  subject 
must  have  been — 

Sam.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  reading,  sir.  Reading!  the  spits 
are  before  all  the  books  that  have  ever  been  written,  from 
Mrs.  Glasse  to  Doctor  Kitchener.  Come,  now,  answer  me 
one  question  :  would  you  cook  your  poults  with,  or  without 
ham  ?     [Aside.]     That's  a  poser. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  871 

Char.  [Aside.}  What  shall  I  say?  Egad,  here  goes, 
hit  or  miss.     [To  Sam.']     With  ham,  sir,  by  all  means. 

Sam.     Very  good,  and  now  for  the  rest. 

Char.  [Aside.]  Come,  there's  one  bit  of  luck,  however. 
[To  Sam. ^  Why,  as  to  the  rest,  sir —  [Aside.']  The  mur- 
der will  out,  to  a  certainty. 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Hang  me,  if  I  think  he  knows  a  grid- 
iron from  a  salamander.  [To  Charles.]  What,  it's  above 
your  cut,  is  it  1  Then  listen  to  me,  and  I'll  tell  you.  First, 
we  open — that  is  to  say,  you  open  the  breasts  of  your  birds : 
then  you  take  a  veal  sweet-bread  chopt,  two  ounces  and 
three  quarters  of  venison  suet,  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
drops  of  lime  juice,  and  half  a  dram  of  the  rind ;  fifteen  large 
oysters,  one  small  anchovy,  the  flesh  of  two  pigeons,  three 
small  mushrooms,  nutmeg,  mace,  salt,  and  cayenne ;  mix 
them  together  with  the  yelks  of  five  plover  eggs — some  peo- 
ple will  tell  you  turkey  eggs;  but,  'tis  a  mistake — a  taste- 
less, vulgar  error — 

CJiar.  [Aside.]  Why,  the  fellow's  worse  than  my 
father. 

Saon.  Fill  the  breasts  of  your  birds  with  the  stuffing, 
stick  them  all  over  with  beef  marrow,  and  half  roast  them : 
then  roll  each  bird  in  a  slice  of  raw  ham.  a  little  thinner  than 
writing  paper,  and  lay  them  in  a  stew-pan.  with  half  a  pint 
of  brown  gravy,  a  gill  of  champagne,  and  a  table  spoonful 
of  cogniac  brandy,  triffles^  morels,  artichoke  bottoms,  cocks- 
combs, asparagus  tops,  forced  meat  balls,  sweet  herbs,  and 
half  a  shalote;  stew  them  till  the  gravy  is  as  thick  as  cream, 
and  send  them  to  the  table  hot.  There,  sir.  you  have  mari- 
nated pheasants'  poults  a  la  braise  imperiale — a  dish  fit  for 
a  king  at  his  coronation  dinner.  [He  paces  the  stage  with 
importance.] 

Char.  [Aside.]  Oh,  I  see  nothing  but  sheer  impudence 
will  do  here  ;  so  I'll  e'en  let  fly  a  few  big  words  myself  [To 
Sam,  loith  confidence.]  Sir,  I  beg  leave  to  say,  that  T  have 
neither  confined  myself  to  theory  nor  to  practice  ;  I  flatter 
myself  I  know  my  business  fts  well  as  another ;  and,  as  for 
culinary  chemistry — 

Sam.  A  fig  for  chemistry !  What  has  chemistry  to  dc 
with  cookery?  I  never  talk  about  what  I  don't  under- 
stand ;  and,  as  for  my  own — that  is — [Aside] — have  a  care 
Sam,  or  they'll  be  smelling  the  kitchen  stuflT!  [To  Charles.] 
I  say.  as  for  cookery,  I — 


372  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

[Enter  Footman^  carrying  a  small  tray^  containing  a  cakt 
of  chocolate^  pot  and  mill^  cup  and  saucer^  'plate  of  rusk, 
and  a  napkin^  which  he  places  upon  the  table^  and  exit.'] 

Stew'.  {Interrupting  Sam^  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for 
interrupting  you  ;  but  remember  the  old  proverb — the  proof 
of  the  pudding  is  in  the  eating.  You'll  have  a  specimen  of 
the  young  fellow's  talent  at  dinnigr  time,  but  Miss  Courtley 
must  not  be  kept  waiting  for  her  chocolate.  \To  Charles.] 
Come,  set  about  it  instantly.  [To  Sam.']  And,  in  the 
meantime,  sir,  here  are  the  heads  of  an  official  letter,  which 
his  excellency  desires  to  have  written  immediately.  {Gives 
a  paper  to  Sam]  So  I'll  leave  you  each  to  his  own  affair, 
and  I  hope  you'll  acquit  yourselves  to  my  credit,  and  your 
own.     {Exit  Steward.] 

Sam.  {Aside.]  Heads  of  an  ofHcial  letter;  if  they'd 
been  calves'  heads,  now,  or  heads  of  broccoli,  I  flatter  myself  I 
could  have  done  'em  justice  :  but  as  for  official  letters — how- 
ever, I'm  in  for  it,  and  so  I  must  do  my  best.  It  seems  a 
queer  job  to  set  about,  but  then  one  sees  so  many  thick- 
headed chaps  secretaries,  of  one  sort  or  another,  that  I 
shouldn't  wonder,  after  all,  if  it's  something  like  tossing  o' 
pancakes — that  seems  difficult  at  first,  but  one  soon  gets 
over  it.  '  {He  sits  doivn  at  the  table.  Charles  takes  the 
chocolate  pot .^  and  goes  to  the  fire-place^ 

C/iar.  {Aside.]  How  in  the  world  am  I  to  manage  it? 
I've  drunk  chocolate  often  enough,  but  hang  me  if  I  know 
any  more  about  making  it  than  I  do  of  compounding  the 
philosopher's  stone.  I  suppose  it  must  be  scraped.  {He 
takes  out  his  penknife.,  and  scrapes  the  chocolate  into  the  pot.] 

Sam.  {Aside.]  I  can  sign  my  name,  and  cut  a  flourish 
at  the  end  of  it,  as  well  as  any  chap :  but  as  for  your  long- 
worded  scrawls — {Again  turning  and  looking  at  Charles] 
Ay,  that's  the  way,  now  put  it  on  the  fire  and  let  it  boil. 
[  Taking  a  pen^  and  dipping  it  in  tlie  ink.]  Here's  a  set 
out  for  a  secretary.  Blow  me,  if  the  pens  ar'nt  as  hard  and 
as  sharp  as  skewers,  and  the  ink  as  thick  as  parsley  and 
butter.  {Tmming  and  looking  at  Charles^  Did  ever  any- 
body see  such  an  awkward  rascal?  [To  Charles.]  Why, 
you  stupid  blockhead,  how  do  you  think  your  chocolate  will 
mix,  if  you  don't  mill  it?  {He  rises.]  Here,  give  it  to  me. 
[He  2^ushes  Charles  aside,  and  rolls  tJie  mill  between  his 
hands.]     There,  so,  till  the  froth  rises:  d'ye  see? 

Char.  Yes,  sir ;  but  really,  you  have  such  a  masterly 
hand. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  373 

Sam.  Oh !  I  see  how  it  is,  I  shall  be  obliged  to  make 
your  chocolate  for  you,  I  suppose.  Hark  ye,  can  you 
write  ? 

Char.     Write,  sir  !  yes,  certainly. 

Sam.  Then  sit  down  at  that  table,  and  finish  what  I've 
begun. 

Char.  ySeatiyig  himself  at  the  table.']  Here's  nothing 
begun,  sir. 

Sa7}i.  So  much  the  better  for  you,  for  you've  got  nothing 
to  mend.     I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  your  job. 

Char.  [Shovjing  the  paper.]  Am  I  to  write  a  letter  from 
these  memoranda,  sir? 

Sa7n.  To  be  sure,  you  are.  [Aside.]  Cook  !  why, 
the  fellow  hasn't  got  brains  enough  for  a  scullion ! — 'Tis 
plaguy  lucky  for  him,  he's  found  some  one  to  do  his  work 
for  him. 

[  Whilst  Charles  is  intently  occupied  in  writing.^  and  Sam 
is  alternately  milling  the  chocolate  and  pouring  it  into  the 
Clip  and  hack  again^  enter  Alderman  Gayfare.,  at  the 
back.] 

Gay.  {^Looking  at  his  watch.]  I  hope  dinner  is  nearly 
ready,  for  I've  a  tremendous  appetite.  [He perceives  Charles.] 
Ha!  what  do  I  see!  my  son!  By  fortune,  he's  not  only 
received  into  office,  but  has  entered  upon  his  functions! 
Oh,  ho,  my  young  gentleman,  I'll  soon  dislodge  you  from 
your  perch.     [Exit^  vrnperceived.] 

Sam.     [To  Charles.]     Well,  how  do  you  come  on  ? 

Char.  Three  words  more,  and  I  shall  be  finished.  [He 
writes  three  lines.,  and  presents  the  'paper']  There's  your 
letter,  sir:  in  point  of  trouble,  sir, 'twas  a  mere  bagatelle; 
such  things  as  those,  are  quite  child's  play  to  me. 

Sam.  [Wipes  t  lie  per  sjnration  from  his  face.]  Pho!  I 
can't  say  quite  so  much  for  your  business ;  however,  there's 
a  cup  of  chocolate,  you  dog,  that  shall  stamp  your  character 
as  a  man  of  talent.  [  Charles  takes  the  chocolate  pot.,  and 
attempts  to  run  off.  Sam  follows  him.  and  pulls  him  back.'] 
Wh}"-,  you  ill-mannered  booby,  is  that  the  way  to  warit  upon 
a  lady?  You  a  servant! — Here!  [Sam  arranges  all  the 
things  upon  the  tray,  gives  it  to  Charles.,  and  hangs  the 
nxipkin  upon  his  arm.]     There,  get  along  with  you. 

Char.  [Aside7\  Now  for  an  interview  with  my  dear 
Ellen;  but  if  her  sides  don't  ache  with  laughter,  when  she 
sees  me  in  this  predicament,  she  musk  have  more  gravity 
than  I  give  her  credit  for. 

32 


374 


NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


[Enter  Steiaard.']. 

Stew.     Come,  quick,  quick  ;  Miss  Courtley's  chocolate. 

Chm .     Directly,  sir.     [He  runs  off.^ 

Sam,  [Watching  him..]  There  he  goes;  he'll  be  throw- 
ing all  the  things  down ;  the  fellow's  certainly  mad. 

Stew.     Have  you  finished  the  letter,  sir? 

Sam.  The  letter  !  oh,  yes,  long  ago.  [He  gives  tJie  let- 
ter^ and  imitates  Charles.]  In  point  of  trouble,  'twas  a 
mere  bagatelle ;  such  things  as  those  are  quite  child's  play 
to  me. 

Stew.  I'll  carry  it  to  his  excellency  immediately.  [  Go- 
ing.'] Oh.  he's  coming  this  way,  together  with  alderman 
Gay  fare.     I'll  introduce  you — 

Sani.  N — n — no,  you're  very  good,  but  I  won't  trouble 
you  just  at  this  moment.  You  know  the  alderman  and 
myself  did  not  part  on  the  most  friendly  terms ;  and,  per- 
haps you  know  he  might  be  whispering  something  to  his 
excellency — you  understand  me.  I'll  just  stay  till  he's  gone. 
[Exit  Sam.] 

[E^iter  Sir  George  Courtley  and  Alderman  Gayfare.] 

Gay.  As  to  my  being  mistaken.  Sir  George,  the  thing's 
quite  impossible.     'Tis  a  love  affair,  you  may  depend  upon  it. 

Sir  G.     But  how  could  they  become  acquainted  ? 

Gay.  Ay,  that's  what  puzzles  me,  for  as  Charles  has 
been  upwards  of  a  year  at  Cambridge — 

Sir  G.  At  Cambridge  !  Oh,  then  the  matter's  explained 
at  once,  for  my  daughter  has  lately  returned  from  a  visit  to 
an  aunt  of  her's,  who  resides  there.  But  admitting  it  to  be 
as  you  surmise,  what  could  induce  him  to  act  so  clandes- 
tinely? 

Gay.  Because  he  was  aware  of  my  having  another 
match  in  view  for  him  ;  nay,  an  old  friend  of  mine  and  my- 
self had  absolutely  agreed  to  marry  his  daughter  to  my  son, 
and  to  give  them  each  a  hundred  thousand  pounds  on  their 
wedding-dav". 

Sir  G.     Indeed! 

Gay.  Yes  ;  and,  instead  of  fulfilling  our  design,  the 
scapegrace  young  scoundrel  was  endeavoring  to  give  us  the 
slip.  Ay,  and  most  likely  would  have  done  it  too.  without 
my  having  any  suspicion,  if  my  old  friend,  General  Carver, 
had  not  called  upon  me  this  morning,  and  told  me  that 
Charles  had  applied  to  him  for  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
you,  that  he  might*  offer  himself  to  you  in  the  quality  of 
secretary. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  376 

Sir  G.     Is  it  possible  ? 

Gay.  Possible!  why,  my  dear  friend,  he  is  not  only  in- 
stalled in  the  office,  but  I  actually  saw  him  exercising-  the 
duties  of  it. 

S^ew.  [  Comiiig  forward  and  presenting  the  paper  to 
Sir  George.]  The  letter  which  your  excellency  ordered  me 
to  get  written  by  the  secretary.     [Retires  again  to  the  back.] 

Sir  G.  "^ery  well.  [He  takes  the  paper,  and  hands  it 
to  Gayfare^     Do  you  know  the  hand  ? 

Gay.  I  could  swear  to  its  being  his  writing.  [He  re- 
turns the  paper.] 

Sir  G.  [To  Stetvard.]  What  recommendations  did  the 
young  man  bring  whom  you  have  engaged  as  secretary? 

Steio.  He  did  not  bring  an}'-  written  recommendations, 
sir,  but — 

Sir  G.     [Angrily.]     But  what,  sir? 

Stetv.  I  hope  your  excellency  will  not  be  offended,  but 
Miss  Courtley  informed  me  she  had  heard  so  much  in  the 
gentleman's  favor,  and  was  so  anxious  that  he  should  be  re- 
tained— that — in  obedience  to  her  commands — I — 

Sir  G.  What,  sir,  my  daughter?  [Checkirig  himself.] 
You  have  done  very  right,  steward.  [To  Gayfare.]  Well, 
alderman,  this  all  tends  to  confirm  your  suspicions. 

Gay.     Oh  !  'tis  as  plain  as  the  sun  at  noon. 

Sir  G.  Well,  my  friend,  and  under  these  circumstances, 
in  what  way  do  you  propose  to  act  ? 

Gay.  In  the  first  place,  the  young  lady  I  intended  marry- 
ing him  to,  has  never  seen  him.  In  the  next  place,  I  should 
be  most  proud  to  cement  our  friendship,  by  uniting  our  fam- 
ilies. I  know  that  Miss  Courtley  has  a  genteel  fortune; 
and,  therefore,  if  you  approve  of  the  match,  the  boy  shall 
have  the  plum  1  intended  for  him.  and  we'll  make  them 
happy  when  they  least  expect  it.     What  do  you  say? 

Sir  G.  If  we  find  their  attachment  of  such  a  nature  as 
to  involve  their  happiness,  I  accept  your  offer.  We  will 
first  punish  them,  by  feigning  ourselves  exceedingly  indig- 
nant at  their  conduct,  and  then  surprise  and  delight  them 
with  our  forgiveness  and  consent. 

Gay.     [Offering  his  ka7td.]     With  all  my  heart. 

Sir  G.  With  this  proviso :  observe,  your  son  shall  meet 
my  approbation. 

Gay.     0,  that  of  course.     [They  shake  hands.] 

Sir  G.  [To  Steward.],  Steward,  why  did  you  not  intro 
duce  my  secretary  to  me  the  moment  I  was  at  leisure? 


876  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Stew.  I  should  have  done  so,  sir,  but  he  begged  to  be 
excused  until  the  alderman's  departure ;  as,  he  said,  he  par- 
ticularly wished  to  avoid  meeting  him. 

Gay.     [To  Sir  George.]     There,  you  see. 

Sir  G.  My  dear  Mr.  Gayfare.be  so  kind  as  to  walk  into 
the  garden  a  few  minutes,  and  let  me  confer  with  him  alone. 

Gay.  Into  the  garden  !  what,  before  dinner  ?  My  dear 
Sir  George,  if  you  don't  wish  me  to  turn  a  second  Nebuchad- 
nezzar, and  devour  the  vegetables,  don't  ask  it. 

Sir  G.  You  shall  not  be  detained  long  ;  and,  in  the  mean- 
time, I'll  order  dinner  to  be  prepared  as  quick  as  possible. 

Gay.  Very  well ;  but  mind — if  you  don't  recall  me  very 
shortly,  I  shall  certainly  make  an  attack  upon  the  larder. 
[JExit  Gay  fare.] 

Sir  G.  Steward,  whilst  I  step  in  and  peruse  this  letter, 
do  you  go  and  expedite  the  dmner,  and  then  desire  the  sec- 
retary to  wait  upon  me  immediately. 

Stew.     I  will,  sir.     [Exeunt  Steicard  and  Sir  George^ 
[Enter  Ellen.  foUoived  by  Lucy.] 

El.  My  dear  Lucy,  if  it  had  not  been  for  disburdening 
my  mind  to  you.  and  making  you  sharer  in  my  secrets,  I 
don't  know  what  would  have  become  of  me.  Have  you 
seen  him  'I 

Lucy.  No,  madam,  but  I've  seen  the  steward,  who  in- 
forms me  that  he  has  granted  him  the  situation,  and  I  am 
confident  that  no  one  has  the  least  suspicion. 

El.  As  soon  as  we  quit  London,  I  shall  begin  to  enjoy 
some  little  tranquillity;  but,  so  long  as  we  remain,  I  shall 
tremble  lest  anything  should  occur  to  mar  our  innocent  pro- 
ject. 

Lu.  I  think  really,  madam,  that  if  anything  happens 
now,  it  must  be  your  own  fault ;  you  must  only  be  careful 
not  to  look  too  loving  upon  each  other,  when  you  meet  at 
dinner;  and — 

El.  At  dinner  ?  No,  Lucy  ;  as  we  are  to  set  out  to-mor- 
row, I  shall  have  an  excellent  excuse  for  remaining  in  my 
own  room ;  and,  let  it  cost  my  heart  what  it  may  I  am  re- 
solved not  to  trust  myself  in  his  presence  until  after  our  de- 
parture :  however,  lest  he  should  misconstrue  my  absence.  I 
have  written  a  note,  which  you  must  contrive  to  deliver  to 
him.  [Gives  the  note  to  Lucy.]  Remember  now,  Lucy. 
how  much  depends  upon  your  secrecy  and  management. 

Lu.     Never  fear,  miss  ;  he  shall  have  it  directly. 

El.     I  am  aware  that  Charles's  father  has  another  match 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  3^1 

in  view  for  him  ;  but,  if  1  may  judge  of  his  affections  by  my 
own,  he  will  rather  forfeit  his  life,  than  the  partner  of  his 
choice. 

Scene  2, — A  Study.  Two  tables,  two  chairs,  ink-stand  and  book  on 
table ;  ink -stand  and  penknife  on  table,  in  center. 

[Enter  Sir  George,  reading  the  letter?^ 

Sir  G.  Upon  my  honor,  this  is  a  highly  favorable  indi- 
cation of  the  abilities  of  my  intended  son-in-law.  He  has 
entered  so  warmly  into  the  subject,  that  he  has  overstepped 
my  intention  ;  but  really,  the  strength  of  diction,  and  the 
choice  of  expression,  which  this  exhibits,  stamps  him  a  man 
of  considerable  genius  and  acquirements.  Oh,  here  he  is. 
[Enter  Sum  Savory,  boiving,  and  advancing  sheepishly^ 
Your  servant,  sir.  Well,  I  have  perused  the  letter  which 
you  wrote  for  me,  and  I  am  happy  to  say,  that  it  does  you 
great  credit. 

Sam.  You're  very  good,  sir  j  it  was  a  mere  trifle  ;  such 
things  are  no  trouble  to  me,  sir. 

Sir  G.  No,  I  perceive  by  the  style  that  you  have  consid- 
erable facility.  However,  there  are  some  expressions  which 
I  think  rather  too  peremptory  ;  and  it  strikes  me,  that  either 
you  have  misinterpreted  my  memoranda,  or  have  taken  the 
liberty  to  be  guided  by  your  own  sentiments. 

Sam.  [Confused.']  Not  I,  sir — not  by  any  manner  of 
means,  sir — I  hope —  [Aside.]  If  that  rascally  cook  has 
put  anything  into  it  to  get  me  into  a  scrape,  I'll  break  his 
bones. 

Sir  G.  Nay,  sir  ;  don't  disavow  your  impressions.  I  do 
not  respect  the  opinions  of  a  man  of  sense  the  less,  because 
ihey  do  not  coincide  with  my  own.  I  shall  be  happy  to 
hear  yours  on  this  subject. 

Sam.  My  opinion  !  Lord  bless  you,  sir — as  to  my  opinion, 
you  know — 

Sir  G.  I  understand  you.  sir,  and  appreciate  your  mod- 
esty. 

Sam.     [Aside.]     What  the  dickens  is  he  driving  at  ? 

Sir  G.  The  fact  is,  that  I  view  the  measure  as  one  of 
mere  political  expediency. 

Sam.     [Aside.]     If  he  will  but  answer  himself  now  ! 

Sir  G.  Whereas  you  seem  to  consider  it  as  one  of  neces- 
sity.    [Smiling.]     Is  it  not  so  ? 

Sam.     [With  awk'ward  satisfaction.]    Hem — ha — hem — 
[Asiclr^     I  suppose  I'd  better  say  yes. 
32* 


378 


NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


Sir  G.     Come,  answer  frankly. 

Sain.  Well,  then,  since  your  excellency  insists  upon  it, 
that's  exactly  the  case. 

Sir  G.     Ha,  I  thought  so  :  well,  sir,  I  applaud  your  can- 
dor, and  respect  your  intelligence  ;  and  T  have  no  doubt  that, 
ere  long,  we  shall  understand  each  other  exceedingly  well. 
■    Sam.     [Aside]     I  hope  we  shall,  upon  my  soul. 
[Enter  Lucy,  cautiously,  beckoning,  and  making  signs  to  Sa- 
vory.] 

Sam.  [Aside.']  What  can  that  girl  want  with  her  nod- 
ding and  winking  ?  [Lucy  shows  tJie  letter,  and  places  her 
finger  on  her  lips,  to  enjoin  silence^ 

Sam.  [  To  Lucy.]  A  letter  for  me  ;  why  don't  you  bring 
it  here  ?     Do  you  think  I've  got  eyes  like  telescopes  1 

Lucy.  The  mischief  take  the  man  :  why,  he's  either  mad 
or  a  fool. 

Sir  G.     [To  Lucy.]     A  letter^ — where  did  you  get  it  ? 

Lucy.  [  Confused.]  Le — le — letter  :  I've  got  no  letter 
for  your  excellency.  [She-  attempts  to  go — Sir  George  fol- 
lows her.] 

Sir  G.  No  evasion — give  me  the  letter  this  instant.  [He 
seizes  her  hand  and  takes  the  letter?^ 

lAicy.  Very  well,  your  excellency.  [Looking  at  Savory.] 
If  any  harm  comes  of  it,  the  gentleman  has  himself  to  blame. 
[Site  runs  off.] 

Sir  G.  [Reading  the  superscri2Jtion.]  To  the  Secretary. 
[He  opens  the  letter.]  As  I  suspected.  [2b  Sam.]  So,  sir, 
you  have  commenced  a  secret  correspondence  with  my 
daughter. 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Oh,  the  fat's  in  the  fire  now,  to  a  cer- 
tainty.    Me,  sir  !  your  daughter  !  I  wish  I  may  die  if  ever — 

Sir  G.  Nay,  sir,  'tis  useless  to  deny  ii.  she  has  herself 
acknowledged  it.     [He  walks  to  and  fro,  as  in  a  passion.] 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Here's  a  slap  of  cold  water.  I  thought 
it  was  too  good  to  last.  I'd  better  confess  at  once.  [He 
throws  himself  on  his  knees  before  Sir  George.]  I  beg  your 
excellency's  pardon  :  I  confes.s  that  I  am  only  a  secretary  by 
chance,  and — 

Sir  G.  [Raising  him.]  Rise,  sir.  I  will  not  carry  your 
humiliation  to  that  extent:  and  on  one  condition  my  daugh- 
ter shall  be  yours. 

Sa77i.    [Astonished.]    Your  excellency's  daughter  mine! 

Sir  G.  On  one  condition.  I  repeat,  namely,  that  you  will 
prove  yourself  worthy  my  indulgence  and  esteem,     liemem- 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  379 

ber  you  are  still  my  secretary,  and  I  therefore  command  you 
to  write  me  one  more  letter — the  letter  of  a  repentant  son.  to 
appease  the  anger  of  an  offended  father.  I  intend  to  dictate 
the  letter  myself,  but  I'm  resolved  that  the  act  of  writing-  it 
shall  be  entirely  your  own  ;  you  understand  me.  no  doubt? 

Sam.  lAside/]  May  the  old  boy  take  me,  if  I  do.  In- 
deed, your  excellency,  I  do  not. 

Sir  G.  Then,  sir,  let  me  tell  you.  you  must  both  under- 
stand me  and  obey  me,  before  I  can  promise  you  my  friend- 
ship. 

Sam.  Ye — yes,  sir.  \A!iideS\  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  don't 
perspire  like  a  larded  capon  in  a  dutch  oven. 

Sir  G.  In  the  first  place,  I  wish  to  be  informed  why.  if 
your  designs  in  my  family  were  honorable,  you  did  not  wait 
upon  me  undisguisedly,  communicate  to  me  your  wishes, 
and  make  me  acquainted  with  your  family  and  connections. 

Sa77i.  [Aside.]  Here's  another  go,  when  he  comes  to 
know  that  my  father  serves  out  buttock,  round  and  flank,  in 
Aldermanbury.  [To  Sir  George.]  Please  your  excellency, 
I  don't  wish  either  to  cheat  or  deceive  any  man  :  my  father 
sir,  is  a  shopkeeper  in  the  city — 

Sir  G.     Ha,  ha,  ha  ;  a  shopkeeper  ! 

Sam.  [Aside.']  Ah.  I  thought  how  it  would  be.  [To 
Sir  George.]     Yes,  sir,  he  is — in  Alderman — 

Sir  G.  I  am  perfectly  aware  of  your  father's  rank,  sir, 
as  well  as  of  the  nature  of  his  shop,  as  you  are  pleased  to 
call  it. 

Sam.  [Aside.]  I  suppose  he  wants  me  to  call  him  a  re- 
staurateur, as  they  do  at  the  west  end.  [To  Sir  George.] 
Why,  your  excellency,  it  is  a  shop,  you  know. 

Sir  G.  Why,  in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word,  he  certainly 
maybe  called  a  shopkeeper,  and  I'm  pretty  familiar  with  the 
article  he  deals  in.  I  have  the  pleasure  to  be  acquainted 
with  your  father. 

Sam.  With  my  father?  [Aside.]  What  could  bring 
them  together?  [To  Sir  George.]  Then  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure to  tell  your  excellency,  that  you  are  acquainted  with  as 
honest  an  old  fellow  as  ever  handled  a  carving  knife. 

Sir  G.  Ha.  ha,  ha ;  I'm  no  stranger,  sir,  either  to  your 
father's  hospitality,  or  his  appetite. 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Well,  I  must  own  he  has  a  precious 
twist,  sure  enough.  [To  Sir  George.]  And  I  assure  you, 
sir.  he  keeps  one  of  the  best  eating-houses — 

Sir  G.     Eating-houses  ?     I  never  saw  such  a  house  for 


880  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

eating-  in  my  life. — If  I  am  rightly  informed,  sir,  you  have 
been  almost  constantly  absent  from  your  father's  house,  du- 
ring the  last  seven  years. 

Sam.  Yes,  sir,  father  wanted  to  bring  me  up  to  be  an 
assistant  in  his  business  ;  but  I  had  a  soul  above  it,  and  was 
resolved  that  if  I  did  follow  the  trade  at  all.  I'd  rule  the  roast. 
as  the  saying  is. 

Sir  G.  So  your  good  father  informed  me.  \_Aside.']  He 
really  has  an  exceedingly  awkward  address  for  a  young  man 
so  genteelly  connected.  I  cannot  imagine  how  Ellen  could 
become  so  enamored  with  him.  However,  as  such  is  evi- 
dently the  case,  and  it  is  at  least  a  wealthy  match,  I  will 
not  thwart  her  inclination. 

Sa77i.  I  beg  your  excellency's  pardon,  but  if  you'll  ex- 
cuse my  curiosity,  how  long  may  it  be  since  you  became 
acquainted  with  my  father? 

Sh'  G.  We  have  known  each  other  for  several  years : 
three  years  ago  I  was  in  the  habit  of  dining  very  frequently 
at  his  house. 

Sain.  [Aside.]  Of  dining  at  my  father's!  [To  Sir 
George,  archly.']  What,  I  suppose  your  excellency  used  to 
pop  in  and  take  a  snack  when  you  went  to  put  money  into 
the  bank? 

Sir  G.  Ha,  ha,  ha;  why,  I  certainly  did  sometimes 
make  my  visits  serve  the  double  purpose  of  business  and 
pleasure  ;  but  I  suspect  your  father  will  tell  you  that  my 
errand  was  more  frequently  to  take  money  out  of  the  bank. 

Sam.  Well,  I  hope  your  excellency  liked  the  dinners  he 
used  to  give  you. 

Sir  G.  It  would  require  the  very  refinement  of  fastidi- 
ousness to  disapprove  of  them  ;  both  the  provisions  and 
cookery  were  as  good  as  heart  could  wish. 

Sami.  [Aside.]  Lord  help  me  for  a  judge,  but  mum. 
I've  got  a  bit  of  cookery  that  will  astonish  him — my  mari- 
nated pheasants'  poults  a  la  braise  imperiale. 

Sir  G.  Well,  sir,  I  now  have  to  inform  you,  that  your 
father  is  exceedingly  indignant  at  the  conduct  which  you 
have  pursued,  in  insinuating  yourself  into  my  family  in  the 
quality  of  secretary. 

Sam.  Why,  he  ought  to  get  down  on  his  knees,  and  be 
thankful  that  I've  got  such  a  situation. 

Sir  G.  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  your  father  in- 
tended you  to  commence  your  public  career  in  a  very  difier- 
ent  manner. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  381 

Sam.  To  be  sure  he  did :  he  never  could  have  any  ex- 
pectation of  my  getting  such  a  place  as  this. 

Sir  G.  No,  sir,  I'm  sure  of  that;  nor  of  the  motives 
w^hich  induced  you  to  solicit  it ;  and,  therefore,  it  is  right 
that  he  should  be  made  acquainted  with  every  particular, 
under  your  own  hand.  [He  leads  Savory  to  a  chair  at  the 
writing  table.']  Come,  sir,  here  are  the  materials  for  your 
purpose — place  yourself  at  the  table,  and  write  what  I  shall 
dictate. 

Sam.  {^Avoiding  the  chair.,  and  coming  forward ?ii^  Here's 
a  mess  ;  1  wish  I  could  get  him  into  gossip  again.  \To  Sir 
George.]  When  your  excellency  dined  at  my  father's,  did 
you  ever  happen  to  eat  any  broiled  chickens  with  mushroom 
sauce  ? 

Sir  G.  Hang  your  chickens  and  sauce,  sir;  is  that  a 
subject  to  introduce  at  this  time? 

Sayn.  [Aside.]  Oh,  I  see  it's  of  no  use.  [To  Sir 
George.]  If  your  excellency  would  but  give  me  half  an 
hour;  [Aside,]  so  that  I  could  make  friends  with  the  cook. 

Sir  G.  No,  sir;  I  command  you  to  do  it  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay,  and  in  my  presence. 

Sa?n.  Well,  if  I  must,  I  must ;  but  I'm  sure  I  shall  do 
it  very  badly.  It  was  always  the  case,  sir,  when  I  was  at 
school.  I  was  always  obliged  to  get  into  a  corner  to  write, 
for  I  never  could  do  it,  fit  to  be  seen,  if  any  one  looked  over 
me. 

Sir  G.  Well,  sir,  I  will  not  look  over  you.  [He  leads 
Savory  to  the  chair  at  the  table.]  You  shall  sit  in  that  chair. 
[He  carries  his  chair  to  the  other  side  of  the  stage.,  and  sits.] 
And  I'll  sit  in  this.  There,  sir,  is  that  sufficient  to  relieve 
your  embarrassment? 

Sa7n,  [  Taking  his  seat  at  the  table^  layi7ig  the  paper  be- 
fore him.,  and  examining  the  pe?is.]  Oh  !  bless  you,  sir,  no. 
'Tis  just  the  same  as  if  you  were  at  my  elbow.  [Aside.] 
If  I  can  but  gain  time  till  something  calls  him  away. 

Sir  G.  And  pray,  sir,  how  could  you  presume  to  engage 
yourself  as  an  envoy's  secretary,  if  you  object  to  writing 
under  dictation?  Why,  it  is  the  very  substance  of  your 
duty ;  and  you  must  endeavor  to  conquer  your  mauvaise 
honte.     Come,  sir,  begin. 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Well,  here  I  am,  regularly  trussed  and 
spitted  ;  I  suppose  basting  will  come  next,  and  then  I  shall 
be  dished. 

Sir  G.     [Dictating.]     Dear  and  honored  sir. 


382  NETV    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Sam.  \IIe  runs  and  crosses  to  Sir.  Gem'ge  ]  I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  have  you  got  such  a  thing  as  a  penknife  in  your 
pocket  ? 

Sir  G.  What,  have  you  not  one  yourself?  A  secretary 
without  a  penknife !     You'll  find  one  in  the  drawer. 

Sam.  [Aside;  listening  at  the  door  as  he  returns  to  his 
seat.]  Nobody  coming  yet.  Oh  !  what,  what  would  I  give 
now  to  hear  of  a  declaration  of  war  with  Denmark  ?  [He 
resumes  his  seat,  and  mends  his  pen.] 

Sir  G.     Well,  sir. 

Sa?n.  [He  continues  mending  the  'pen,  and  occasionally 
looldng  askance  at  Sir  George,  until  he  is  unobserved,  when 
he  empties  the  inkstand  into  his  handkerchief,  and  replaces 
it  hefoi-e  him,  dipping  his  pen  into  the  inkstand,  and  hold- 
ing it  up  to  Sir  George.]  I'm  sorry  to  be  so  troublesome 
to  your  excellency,  but  here's  no  ink. 

Sir  G.  No  ink  ?  [He  rises  and  cros.^es  to  Sam.]  There 
was  ink  this  morning.  Those  scoundrels,  the  servants,  are 
always  deranging  something.  I  have  more  ink.  [He  takes 
a  bottle  of  ink  from  the  bookcase,  fills  the  inkstand,  leaving 
the  bottle  uncorked  on  the  table,  and  resumes  his  seat.] 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Oh,  then,  it's  all  up;  and  I  shall  get 
turned  out,  as  clear  as  a  jelly. 

Sir  G.     Have  you  written  what  I  have  desired  you  ? 

Sam.  No,  sir,  not  yet.  [He  writes  and  speaks  to  him- 
self] D,  double  E,  R,  deer,  and — egad,  I'll  put  an  ampasand, 
and  that  will  save  trouble.  Deer  and  H,  0,  N,  hon,  N,  E, 
R,  ner,  honner,  E,  D,  ed,  honnered,  S,  double  E,  R,  seer. 
[Aloud.]  Seer.  [Aside.]  If  he  does  but  steer  clear  of 
hard  words. 

Sir  G.     [Dictating.]     I  am  at  a  loss  to  express. 

Sam.  [As  before.]  I,  by  itself.  I— H,  A,  M,  ham— H, 
A,  T,  hat— A,  by  itself.  A— L,  0,  S,  los— T,  0,  to— X,  P, 
R,  E,  S,  expres.  [Aloud.]  Expres.  [Aside.]  Come,  that's 
not  so  bad. 

Sir  O.     [As  before^     In  adequate  terms — 

Sam.  [Aside^  That's  rather  a  queer  one,  though.  I, 
N,  in.  A,  D,  ad,  D,  E,  adde,  Q,  U,  I,  T,  quit,  addequit— T, 
U,  R,  M,  S,  turms.     [Aloud"]     Turms. 

Sir  G.     [As  before^     The  sorrow  which  I  feel — 

Sam.  [Writes  as  before.]  T.  H,  E.  the— S.  0,  so,  R.  0. 
ro,  soro— W,  I,  T,  C,  H,  witch—I,  by  itself,  I,— F,  E,  L.  E, 
fele.    [Aloud.]    Fele.    [Aside.]    It  goes  on  pretty  smoothly. 

Sir  G.     For  the  act — 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  383 

Sam.  F,  0,  R,  for— T,  H,  E,  the— A,  C,  T,  act.  [Aloud.] 
Act. 

Sir.     Of  insubordination  and  duplicity — 

Sa?}i.  [Aside.]  Oh,  ginger.  [He  drops  the  pen.]  I 
thought  how  it  would  be — that's  a  clincher. 

Sir  G.     Well,  sir,  why  don't  you  continue? 

Sam.  [Rising  from  his  chair,  and  laying  his  hand  on 
his  cheekj  and  stamping  about  the  stage^  as  if  in  violent 
pain.]     Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Sir  G.     What's  the  matter  ? 

Satn.  My  tooth,  your  excellency,  my  tooth,  an  infernal 
old  stump,  that  makes  my  life  a  misery.  Pray,  excuse 
me,  sir,  whilst  I  get  a  mouthful  of  brandy.  [He  attempts 
to  g-o.] 

Sir  G  No,  sir,  I  will  not  excuse  you.  I  expected  these 
efforts  at  evasion,  but  they  shall  not  serve.  Resume  your 
seat  immediately,  and  pursue  your  task. 

Sam:     [Whi?npering.]     What,  in  spite  of  my  teeth? 

Sir  G.  Yes,  sir,  in  spite  of  every  excuse  you  can  in- 
vent. 

Sam.  [Resuming  his  seat,  and  wiping  the  perspiration 
from  his  face.]  I'm  stewed  tender;  and  if  they  intend  to 
have  me  taken  up,  as  I  dare  say  they  will,  only  let  them  do 
it  now.  and  they  may  serve  me  away  hot. 

Sir  G.  Pray,  sir,  do  you  intend  this  as  a  specimen  of 
the  extraordinary  promptitude  which  you  just  now  boasted 
of  possessing  ? 

Sam.  I  beg  you  won't  mention  it,  sir.  What  was  it 
your  excellency  desired  me  to  write  ? 

Sir  G.     What  did  you  write  last  ? 

Sam.     [Reading.]     Sorrow  which  I  feel  for  the  act. 

Sir  G.  [Repeating  very  distinctly.]  Of  insubordination 
and  duplicity — 

Sam.  [Aside.]  Oh,  sure  there  never  was  such  words  in 
the  English  language.  Of  in-subordi — hang  it,  I  might  as 
well  attempt  to  take  down  the  debates  of  the  house  of  com- 
mons. What's  to  be  done  ?  [He  looks  up  at  the  book-case.] 
I  spy  something — Johnson's  dictionary.  [He  rises  to  reach 
the  dictionary ;  the  board  falls ^ 

Sir  G.  [Exclaims.]  There !  Sir,  your  conduct  is 
enough  to  make  one  forget  the  laws  of  common  decorum. 

Sa7n.  I  beg  pardon.  It  was  an  accident.  I  went  to 
take  down  a  dictionary,  and  found  it  was  all  garnish,  and 
as  my  memory  is  none  of  the  best,  will  you  be  so  good  as 


384  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

to  tell  me  how  you  spell  the  two  long  words  you  men- 
tioned ? 

Sir  G.  What !  do  you  not  know  the  orthography  of 
your  own  language  ? 

Sam.  Yes,  your  excellency,  as  well  as  any  other  chap 
going,  except  the  spelling,  and  that,  I  must  own,  I  never 
was  a  dab  at. 

Sir  G.  Why,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Let  me 
look  at  the  letter,  sir. 

Sam.     Yes,  sir.     [Hands  tJie  letter  to  Sir  George.'] 

Sir  G.  [Reading.]  D,  double  E,  R,  and  H,  0,  N,  N, 
E,  R.  Why,  what  a  jumble  of  jargon  is  this?  Pray,  sir, 
is  this  some  new  deception,  or  do  you  mean  to  say  you  can 
write  no  better? 

Sam.  I  told  your  excellency  how  it  would  be,  if  I  wasn't 
alone.     'Tis  the  best  I  can  do,  as  I  hope  to  be  saved. 

Sir  G.  Then  answer  me  instantl^^,  sir ;  who  wrote  the 
official  letter  which  you  palmed  upon  me  as  your  perform- 
ance? 

Sa7)i.  I  won't  tell  your  excellency  a  word  of  a  lie.  It  was 
your  new  cook. 

Sir  G.  Then  it  seems  you  are  an  ignorant,  insolent 
scoundrel,  -without  anything  except  your  father's  opulence, 
to  recommend  you.  [He  seizes  Savory  by  the  collar:]  And 
how  dared  you,  presumptuous  idiot  as  you  are,  to  make  ad- 
vances to  my  daughter  ? 

Sam.  If  your  excellency's  daughter  fell  in  love  with  me, 
It  wasn't  my  place,  you  know,  to  find  fault  with  her  taste; 
and  as  you  promised  that  I  should  liave  her — 

Sir  G.  [Pushing  him  away  ^  Have  her  ?  Death!  I'd 
rather  follow  her  to  the  tomb. 

Sam-.  Oh,  very  well,  it  was  your  own  offer,  you  know,  as 
I  never  saw  the  young  lady — 

Sir  G.  What,  miscreant,  will  you  insult  my  ears,  by 
giving  my  daughter  the  lie?     Out  of  my  presence,  sir. 

Sam.  [With  vehejnence.']  Upon  my  soul  and  body,  your 
excellency — 

Sir  G.  Cowardly  wretch,  have  you  the  mea'nness  to  deny 
it,  when  she  has  the  courage  to  confess  it?  Get  out  of  my 
house,  sir. 

Sam.  [  Whimpering.^  and  wiping  his  eyes  with  the  inky 
pocket  handkerchief^  But  your  excellency  won't  turn  me 
away  ?     Remember  my  poor  father. 

Sir  G.     Am  I  not  obeyed  ?      Idiot !   this   is   beyond  en- 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING,  385 

durance.     Out  of  my  house,  sir.  this  instant,    Get  out,  I  say. 
\IIe  kicks  Savory  off  tlie  stage,  and  follows.^ 

Scene  3. — A  dining-room — a  dinner  table  prepared  for  four  persons. 

[^Enter  Steward,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand.'] 

Stew.  [Reading  the  superscription.]  To  Sir  George 
Oourtley's  Steward.  Oh,  an  applicant  for  one  of  the  places, 
I  suppose  However,  he's  too  late,  whoever  he  is.  [Ojyens 
tlie  letter  and  reads.] 

{Enter  Charles,  walking  about  in  great  agitation^ 

Char.  [Aside.]  What  means  can  I  possibly  devise  for 
obtaining  an  interview  with  Ellen  ?  half  an  hour  have  I  been 
watching,  without  the  possibility  of  catching  a  glimpse  of  her. 

Stew,  [l^urning  a?id  observing  Charles.]  Hollo,  cook, 
what's  the  matter  ? 

Ch.  The  matter  !  I'm  half  frantic  with  vexation.  I  car- 
ried the  chocolate  up  to  Miss  Courtley,  and  just  as  I  was  in 
theactof  knocking,  a  bouncing,  brazen-faced  wench  snatched 
the  tray  out  of  my  hand,  and  slammed  the  door  in  my  face. 

Stew.  It  served  you  right — what  business  had  you  to 
carry  it  upstairs?  Why  don't  you  mind  your  own  con- 
cerns? I'm  sure  you  have  not  a  moment  too  much  time  to 
get  dinner  ready. 

Char.     Hang  the  dinner  ! 

Stew.  Come,  young  man.  you  must  not  be  impertment, 
or  else  you  and  I  may  fall  out — you  thought  to  give  the  old 
gentleman  the  slip. 

Char.     What  old  gentleman,  sir? 

Stew.  Your  father.  Pray,  do  you  happen  to  know  a 
place  called  Aldermanbury  ? 

Char.  [Aside.]  Goodness!  he  is  in  possession  of  my 
whole  secret,  and  if  I  cannot  soothe  him  to  silence.  I  shall 
be  exposed  both  to  disappointment  and  ridicule.  [To  Steiv- 
ard.]  How  you  obtained  your  information,  sir.  I  will  not 
mquire  ;  I  pe  ceive  that  you  are  apprised  of  my  desire  to 
conceal  my  present- situation  from  my*father:  perhaps  you 
are  also  acquainted  with  my  motives,  and  if  you  will  only 
promise  that  you  will  not  betray  me  [he  takes  out  his  pocket- 
book,  and  offers  a  note  ]  any  remuneration  that  is  within  the 
compass  of  my  finances — 

Stew.     No  no.  cook,  put  up  your  money  ;  I  won't  deprive 
you  of  any  more.     AVhat  I  said  was  only  to  put  you  in  a 
fidget.     But  come,  cook  the  sooner  you  get  about  serving  up 
2  A  '        :J3 


386  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

the  dinner,  the  better  :  you  11  have  a  wedding  dinner  to  pre- 
pare 

Chxir.     A  wedding-  dinner!   for  whom? 

Stew.  For  Miss  Courtley.  who  is  to  be  married  to-morrow 
morning  to  our  young  secretary. 

Char.     To  the  secretary  ? 

Steiv.  Ay.  he  that  gave  you  such  a  lecture  in  the  art  of 
cookery.  But  bless  your  soul,  he's  no  more  a  secretary  than 
you  or  I.     He's  a  lover  in  disguise 

Char.  A  lover  in  disguise?  [Inarage.^  What,  Ellen, 
the  lovely  Ellen,  a  party  to  such  a  diabolical  plot !  I  cannot, 
will  not  believe  it.  But  I'll  know  the  truth  :  I'll  seek  out 
this  soi-disant  secretary,  and  if  he  dares  to  confirm  the  stew- 
ard's statement,  either  he  shall  relinquish  his  pretensions,  or 
I'll  blow  his  brains  out.  [As  he  advances  furiously.,  enter 
Aldennan  Gay  fare;  tliey  }neet  face  to  face. ^ 

Char      My"  father  I 

Gay.     My  son  ! 

Stew.  [Aside.]  What  our  cook  the  son  of  an  alderman  ? 
This  is  a  day  of  wonders.  [Exit  Steward.  After  a  moment 
of  s?irprioe^  Charles  attempts  to  pass  Gay  fare.,  who  'pushes 
him,  back.] 

Gay.  No  young  man.  )''ou  shall  not  escape  me  now.  I 
have  found  you.  What,  you  have  been  playing  at  bo-peep, 
have  you  ?  Well,  come,  my  boy,  give  me  your  hand.  {They 
shake  hands.]  I'm  glad  to  see  you  ;  I  know  your  attach- 
ment and  your  wishes;  I  intended  to  be  in  a  terrible  sham 
passion  with  you  but  I'm  too  honest  for  dissimulation,  and 
too  hungry  to  do  anything  to  delay  the  dinner.  I've  paved 
the  way  for  you  with  Sir  George,  and  he  has  promised  me 
that  to-morrow  morning  shall  make  Miss  Courtley  my  daugh- 
ter-in-law. 

[Enter  Sir  George  Courtley  and,  Ellen.] 

Sir  G  [As  he  enters,  having  Iward  the  last  part  of  Gay- 
fare!s  s/jeech. )     No  alderman,  no.  I  protest  against  that. 

Gay.  Why.  Sir  George,  you  surely  will  not  pay  so  little 
regard  to  your  word  as — 

Sir  G  Remember  the  conditions,  that  your  son  shall 
meet  my  approbation  ;  and  after  the  scene  which  we  have 
just  acted  together— 

Char.     [Aside.]     We  have  acted  together  ! 

Sir  G.  If  it  had  not  been  for  our  friendship.  I  verily  be- 
lieve I  should  have  thrown  him  out  of  the  window.     But  as 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  387 

lie  was  your  sun.  I  contented  myself  by  merely  kicking  him 
out  of  my  study. 

Gay.  [Botving]  Upon  my  honor,  Sir  George,  I  am 
much  indebted  to  you  for  your  forbearance.  [  To  Charles.'] 
Come  sir  why  don't  you  express  your  acknovvl.edgments  to 
Sir  George,  for  his  kind  consideration  ? 

Char.  My  dear  sir,  I  scarcely  know  whether  I'm  awake 
or  asleep  .  but  if  this  be  a  vision^  I'm  undone.  [He  advances 
to  Elle?i.  and  takes  her  hand.] 

Sir  G.     \To  Charles.']     And  pray,  who  are  you,  sir? 

Gay.     Who  is  he  ?     Why,  my  son.  to  be  sure. 

«SVr  G.     This  your  son  ? 

El.     Certainly,  papa  ;  this  is  Charles. 

Sir  G.  Then  who  in  the  name  of  common  decency  and 
decorum  was  that  fellow  who  was  with  me  in  my  study,  and 
whom  the  steward  introduced  to  me  as  my  secretary  :  a  vul- 
gar booby,  who  could  not  write  three  words  of  intelligible 
English? 

Char.  I  happen  to  know  something  of  him,  sir;  he  pre- 
tended to  be  a  lover  of  Miss  Courtley's  in  disguise.  [Charles 
and  Ellen  confer  a  part. '\ 

Sir  G.  In  disguise  !  Then  he  must  have  had  some  im- 
proper motives  ;   he  must  be  pursued. 

Gay.     Not  before  dinner,  Sir  George,  I  beseech  you,  for 
in  the  very  nick  of  time,  here  it  comes,  and  if  I  fast  five  min- 
utes longer,  I  shall  faint. 
[Enter  four  Footmen,  each  carrying  a  dish.,  which  they  place 

upon  the  table ;  then  enters  Sam  Savory^  in  his  cook^s 

dress,  with  an  apron  on  a7id  a  napkin  on  his  arm.  cover- 
ing a  dish  with  great  care.  ] 

Sir  G.  [Recognizing  Savory.]  Why.  by  all  that's  mi- 
raculous, this  is  the  fellow  I  was  just  speaking  of! 

Sam.     You  did  me  too  much  honor,  sir. 

Gay.  Why  bless  my  heart,  'tis  my  old  cook.  Sam  Sa- 
vory, whom  I  intended  to  recommend  to  your  notice.  [To 
Sam.]  Why.  then  !  you  rascal  have  you  been  the  cause 
of  all  this  confusion  ?  [He  raises  his  cane,  as  if  going  to 
Urike  him.] 

Sa7n.  [  Coolly  taking  off  the  cover,  and  holding  the  dish 
under  Gayfare^s  nose.']     Strike,  sir.  strike  but  smell. 

Gay.  What  have  we  here  ?  [Smelling.]  By  my  appe- 
tite, 'tis  my  favorite  dish  ;  marinated  pheasants'  poults,  as  I 
hope  to  be  saved. 

Sam.     [He  goes  and  places  the  dish  vpon  the  tahle,  then 


388  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

comes  forward  and  addresses  Sir  George.']  Please  your  ex- 
cellency. I  was  your  secretary  by  accident,  and  am  now  your 
cook  by  inclination.  Although  I  was  a  fool  in  the  study.  T 
trust  that  by  descending  a  story  or  two  lower  I  become  a 
m-an  of  talent;  for.  according  to  the  old  proverb,  the  gentle- 
man is  known  by  his  actions,  and  the  cook  by  his  ragouts 

Char.  I  fancy  Sir  George  does  not  yet  fully  comprehend 
the  arcana  of  this  day's  adventures  :  but  I'm  now  in  perfect 
possession  of  them  and  shall  make  it  my  business  to  explain 
them  at  table.  We  have  been  for  some  time  playing  a  game 
of  cross  purposes  ;  but,  thank  fortune,  we  are  all  now  re- 
stored to  our  proper  places  ;  and  I  hope  everyone  present  is 
as  vvell  satisfied  as  I  am.  {He  leads  Ellen  forivard,  and 
addresses  the  audience^  The  approbation  of  our  indulgent 
friends,  is  the  element  in  which  alone  we  can  live  ;  and  I 
trust  we  shall  not,  on  the  present  occasion,  find  ourselves  in 
that  sense,  "  Fish  out  of  water."     \_Exeunt.'] 


XXXTV.— FROM  THE  FASHIONABLE  "LOYY,^.— Cumberland 

MORTIMER A UBREY COLIN   MACLEOD BRIDGEMORE NAP- 

THALI SERVANT. 

Scene  1.— Fish  Street  Hill 

[Enter  Aubrey^ 
Aubrey.  If  Bridgemore  hasn't  shifted  his  abode,  that  is 
the  house — 'twas  there  that,  eighteen  years  ago.  I  lost  a  wife, 
and  left  an  infant  daughter.  All-disposing  Providence,  who 
hast  ordained  me  to  this  hour,  and  through  innumerable 
toils  and  dangers  led  me  back  to  this  affecting  spot,  can  it 
be  wondered  at.  if  I  approach  it  with  an  anxious,  aching 
heart,  uncertain  as  I  am,  if  I  have  still  a  child  or  not? 
What  shall  I  do?  If  my  Augusta's  lost,  'twere  better  I 
should  never  enter  those  ill-omened  doors ;  if  she  survives, 
how  shall  I  disclose  myself,  and  tell  her  she  has  still  a 
father!  Oh!  that,  unknown  and  unperceived,  I  could  but 
catch  a  sight  of  her;  gaze  till  I'd  gratified  my  longing,  and 
till  this  throbbing  might  abate.  I'll  watch  the  door  till 
somebody  comes  out  that  I  may  speak  to.     [Steps  aside] 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  389 

[Enter  Colin.'] 

Colin.  The  murrain  light  upon  this  Fish  Street  Hill, 
wherever  it  may  be.  I  would  it  had  na'  got  its  name  for 
naught,  that  T  might  fairly  smell  it  out  for  I  am  clear  be- 
waldered.  Johnny  Groat's  house  would  as  soon  be  found 
as  this  same  Bradgemore's.  One  cries  turn  o'  this  hand, 
one  o'  that;  t'other  stares  and  grins,  forsooth,  because  I 
hanna'  got  the  modern  gabble  on  my  tongue,  but  speak  the 
language  in  its  auncient  purity.  Hoot!  this  mon  seems  of 
a  batter  sort,  and  peradventure  would  concede  an  answer. 
Speed  you.  gentleman,  I  pray  you,  which  way  leads  to  Fish 
Street  Hill  ? 

Aub.     This  is  Fish  Street  Hill. 

Col.  Gadzooks !  and  that's  the  reason  I  could  find  it  na' 
where  alse.     Ken  ye  one  Bradgemore's  may  I  ask  ? 

Aub.  He  used  to  live  in  yonder  house,  with  the  great 
gates ;    but  it  is  many  years  since  I  have  been  in  England. 

Col.  V  faith  you  need  na'  tell  me  that;  I  apprehend  as 
much,  from  your  civility. 

Aub.  Give  me  leave,  now,  in  my  turn,  to  ask  you  a  few 
questions 

Col.  With  aw  my  heart :  you  have  good  right ;  you  may 
interrogate  me  freely. 

Aub.     You  are  acquainted, with  this  Bridgemore? 

Col.     I  am. 

Aub.     And  with  his  family? 

Col.     I  am. 

Aub.     And  what  does  it  consist  of? 

Col.     Troth,  of  a  spouse  and  daughter. 

Aub.     Are  they  all  ? 

Col.  Ay,  and  enough,  in  aw  good  reason  ;  the  de'il,  sir, 
in  his  vengeance,  need  na'*add  a  third. 

Aub.  But,  to  be  serious  :  tell  me,  I  beseech  you,  do  you 
know  of  no  one  else  in  Mr.  Bridgemore's  family  1 

Col.     Of  none. 

Aub.  What  do  I  hear  1  Pray,  recollect  yourself,  honest 
friend;  has  no  young  lady,  of  the  name  of  Aubrey,  come 
within  your  knowledge? 

Col.  Ay  ay.  poor  lassie ;  she  once  lived  with  Bradge- 
more ;  the  worse  luck  hers  but  that  is  over :  she  has  got 
her  liberty  ;  she's  now  released. 

Aub.     I  understand  you  —she  is  dead. 

Col.  Dead  !  Heaven  forefend  !  An'  you  would  give  me 
time,  i  would  ha'  told  vou  she's  released  from  yon  fat  fel- 

33* 


390  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

low's  tyranny.  Troth,  with  his  gude  will,  she  might  ha' 
starved  and  perished  in  the  streets. 

Aub.  What  is't  you  tell  me  ?  In  the  same  breath  you 
bring  my  hopes  to  life,  and  murder  them  again.  Starved  in 
the  streets  !     I  thought  she  had  an  affluent  fortune. 

Col.  In  virtue  sir — naught  else ;  and  that  will  not  pass 
current  for  a  dinner.  Zooks  !  and  I  mysall,  by  heaven's 
gude  Providence,  had  na'  stapt  in,  upon  the  very  nick  of 
time,  my  life  upon't,  she  had  been  lost. 

Aub.     Distraction  !  how  this  racks  my  heart. 

Col.  Ay,  and  mine  too.  I  tell  ye  it  gave  it  sic  a  pull,  1 
canna',  for  the  sol  of  me,  get  it  back  into  its  place  again. 

Aub.  Come  to  my  arms.  then,  whosoever  thou  art,  and 
wonder  not,  for  thou  hast  saved  my  daughter ! 

Col.  Daughter !  gadzooks  !  you  make  my  heart  jump 
to  my  laps  for  joy.     Are  you  Miss  Aubrey's  father? 

Atib.     I  am  her  father. 

Col.  An'  if  I'd  found  mine  awn,  I  could  na'  been  more 
happy.  Wall,  wall,  I  hope  you'll  merit  your  gude  fortune  ; 
by  my  sol,  you've  got  an  angel  of  a  child.  But  where 
have  you  been  buried  aw  the  while  ?  for  we  believed  you  dead. 

Aub.  You  shall  hear  all  my  story,  but  this  is  no  fit  place 
to  tell  it  in  ;  satisfy  me,  first,  if  my  poor  child  is  safe* 

Col.  Fear  naught,  she's  safe  with  Maister  Mortimer ;  I 
iaft  her  but  this  moment. 

Auh.     Who  is  Mr.  Mortimer  ? 

Col.  Why,  Maister  Mortimer  is  one  who  does  a  thousand 
noble  acts,  without  the  credit  of  one ;  his  tongue  wounds, 
and  his  heart  makes  whole;  he  must  be  known  and  not 
described.  An'  you  will  bait  awhile  in  yonder  tavern,  till  I 
come  from  Bradgemore's.  I'll  accompany  you  to  your  daughter. 

Aub.  Agreed.  I  fear  I've  been  mistaken  in  this  Bridge- 
more.  Three  years  ago  I  consigned  to  him  a  cargo  of  great 
value  from  Scanderoon  ;  if  he  has  robbed  me  —but,  till  I've 
seen  my  daughter,  I'll  suspend  my  inquiry.  Step  with  me 
into  yonder  tavern  ;  there  we'll  concert  the  means  of  bring- 
ing Bridgemore  to  an  interview  at  Mr.  Mortimer's.  Come, 
my  good  benefactor,  how  fortunate  was  this  meeting !  I 
long  to  know  to  whom  I  owe  this  happiness.     [Exetint.] 

Scene  2. — Bridgemore's  Counting-house. 

[Enter  Bridgemore  and  Napthali.'\ 
Bridgemore.     So,  these  are  the  bonds. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSINO.  391 

Na'pthali.  Yes,  take  'em  ;  this  is  a  memorandum  of  the 
premium  on  five  thousand,  and  this  the  private  contract  for 
extraordinary  interest.      [^Gives j^d'pers.^ 

Bridge.  Good  friend  Napthali.  The  bonds  give  legal 
interest  and  this  doubles  it  There,  there;  lie  by  and  breed 
But  hark  ye :  hast  brought  the  abstract  of  the  sale  of  the 
Neptune's  cargo? 

Nap.     Aubrey's  consignment,  you  mean. 

Bridge.  The  same:  but.  mum!  that's  between  you  and 
me.     Close,  close,  my  little  Napthali. 

Nap.  A  broker,  and  betray  his  principal !  that's  not  my 
vay ;  there  is  no  senses  in  that.  Here  I  have  made  out 
your  account:  'tis  very  coot  bargain  I  have  make,  consid- 
ering diamond  is  a  drug. 

Bridge.  Why.  this  tells  well ;  it  mounts.  The  raw  silk 
was  old  gold ;  the  carpeting  and  cottons  not  amiss ;  and, 
whuh  !  the  rhubarb — 

Naj).     Ah  !  sir.  but  vat  is  that?     Look  at  the  coffee ! 

Bridge.  Politics  account  for  that ;  while  newspapers  bear 
price,  coffee  will  hold  its  own.  This  rupture  with  the  Rus- 
sians was  in  our  favor  here. 

Nap  Ay,  ay ;  a  charming  stroke.  War  is  a  very  coot 
thing  and  then  the  plague ;  a  blessed  circumstance,  tank 
heaven — coot  seven  per  cent. 

Bridge.  Let  me  see;  altogether, 'tis  a  thumping  sum; 
it  netted  forty  thousand.  Where's  the  conscience,  Napthali, 
that  wouldn't  strain  a  point  for  forty  thousand  pounds? 

Nap.  Oh  !  'tis  all  fair  in  the  vay  of  trade ;  you  could 
not  strike  a  jury  out  of  Jonathan's  that  wouldn't  acquit 
you. — Well,  Mr.  Bridgemore,  anything  more  in  my  vay  1 

Bridge.     Nothing  at  present      Did  you  call  at  Lloyd's  ? 

Najy.  Odso  !  well  recollected  !  The  Seahorse  is  arrived 
from  Scanderoon.  she  that  had  such  high  insurance  upon  her. 

Bridge.  What  d'ye  hear?  What  passengers  come  in 
her  ?     Is  she  at  Stangate  creek  ? 

Nap.  No,  in  the  pool.  She  brought  clean  bills  of  health 
from  Leghorn. 

Bridge.  Go,  go ;  you  have  given  me  an  ague-fit :  the 
name  of  Scanderoon  sets  all  my  teeth  a  chattering.  [Exii 
Napthali.']  Well,  would  it  had  been  possible  to  have  kept 
my  secret  from  that  fellow. — The  Seahorse  come  at  last  ? 
Why.  be  it  so.  What  ails  me  ?  What  possesses  me  ?  If 
she  brings  news  of  Aubrey's  death.  I'm  a  whole  man;  ay, 
and  a  warm  one.  too.     How  now  I  who's  there  ? 


892  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

[Enter  Colin  Macleod.] 

Col.  Cawdie  Macleod,  a  ragged  Highlander,  so  please 
you ;  a  wretched  gaelly,  under  favor  of  your  raverence  ;  na' 
better. 

Bridge.  I  recollect  you  now.  for  one  of  my  Lord  Abber- 
ville's  retinue.  Well,  you  have  some  inquiries  to  make 
about  Miss  Aubrey? 

Col.     Ecod,  you're  close  upon  the  mark. 

Bridge.  I  guessed  as  much  ;  but  she  is  gone  from  hence, 
and  you  may  follow. 

Col.  Out  on  thee,  ragamuffin  !  An'  I  were  not  bound 
to  secrecy,  I'd  give  thee  sic  a  pull,  should  lead  that  weam 
of  thine  the  de'il  a  dance.     [Aside.] 

Bridge.  No,  master  Colin  ;  your  Scotch  policy  will  stand 
you  in  no  stead  this  turn. 

Col.  Then  I'll  forswear  my  country.  Well,  you  wull  na' 
have  my  message,  then  I  mun  gang  bock  to  Maister  Morti- 
mer, and  tell  the  Turkish  trader  you'll  na'  see  him. 

Bridge.     Hold,  hold  !  what  trader  do  you  speak  of? 

Col.  Of  one  that's  come  a  passenger  from  Scanderoon, 
aboard  the — what  d'ye  call  the  vessel  ]  The  Seahorse,  T 
take  it. 

Bridge.     What?  who?     Is  it  not  Aubrey  ? 

Col.     Gude  faith,  I  would  it  were  ;  the  mon  is  dead. 

Bridge.     Which  man  is  dead  ?  the  passenger,  or  Aubrey  ? 

Col.  Hoot!  can't  you  think  'tis  Aubrey?  By  your 
leave,  truth,  awhile  ;  you  will  na'  take  it  much  to  heart,  an' 
I  make  use  of  falsehood  to  detect  itsall.     \  Aside] 

Bridge.  I'll  go  to  Mr.  Mortimer's  ;  I'll  go  with  all  my 
heart.  Give  me  your  hand  ;  1  ask  your  pardon  heartily,  my 
honest  friend.  And  so  he's  dead  you  say ;  you're  sure  he's 
dead.     Pray,  what  distemper  did  he  die  of? 

Col.  When  a  man's  in  his  grave,  what  matters  what  dis- 
temper laid  him  there  ? 

Briflge.  That's  true  ;  that's  true  enough  Pray  you.  sit 
down  ;  I'll  just  run  up  and  tell  my  wife  and  daughter.  Shall 
I  meet  a  welcome  think  you  ? 

CoL     Ay.  sic  a  one  as  you  don't  look  for.  take  ray  word. 

Bridge.     I  am  a  new  man  ;   I  walk  upon  the  air.    [Exit] 

Col.  Ecod  !  the  project  takes  ;  I  drew  for  the  cock  bird, 
and  have  taken  the  whole  covey. 

[Enfe?-  Napikali  hastily  ] 

Nap.  Ods  my  life,  Mr.  Bridgemore,  I  forgot — Who's 
there  :  that  crafty  Scotchman  ? 


COMIC    AND   AMUSTNO.  893 

Col.  Hold,  hold !  friend  Napthali :  you  and  I  munna 
part ;  you  must  keep  pace  with  me  to  Maister  Mortimer's. 

Naj).  To  Mr.  Mortimer's  1  Impossible  ;  why,  I  must 
be  at  bank,  sir ;  I  must  be  at  Jonathan's  I've  forty  bar- 
gains to  settle.  I  shall  have  half  the  coffee-house  on  my 
back.     Would  you  make  me  a  lame  duck  ? 

Col.  Duck,  or  no  duck,  ecod !  sir,  you  must  travel. 
[Drags  him  out.] 

Scene  3. — Mortimer's  Library. 

[Mortimer  discovered. — Enter  Colin  Macleod.'] 

Col.  Bless  you.  gude  Maister  Mortimer.  I  hanna'  slept 
in  your  commission.  Yon  fat  fellow  upon  Fish  Street  Hill 
is  on  his  march  :  the  plot  is  thickening,  you  mun  know, 
apace,  and  yon  same  buzzard  canna'  spy  it  out. 

Mortimer.     What  plot  is  thickening^ 

Col.  Zooks  !  mon,  you  shall  behold  as  pretty  a  discov- 
ery, come  the  time,  as  ever  your  eyes  looked  upon  ;  but  aw 
things  in  their  course;  I  mun  gang  home  the  whilst,  but 
I'll  be  quickly  bock  again  d'ye  see? 

Mort.  Do  so,  my  friend,  and.  hark  ye  !  tell  your  lord  I 
beg  half  an  hour's  conversation  with  him,  when  and  where 
he  pleases. 

Col.  I  shall  do  that:  but  you  mun  know,  while  I  was 
on  my  way,  I  crossed  upon  a  gentleman  of  no  vulgar  pres- 
ence, and,  considering  he  has  sojourned  for  a  pretty  many 
years  with  none  but  such  as  we  denominate  barbarians,  as 
courteous  in  his  manners  as  your  heart  could  wish. 

Mort.     That  accounts  for  it.     Well,  what  of  him  ? 

Col.  With  your  leave.  Maister  Mortimer,  he'll  tell  you 
his  own  errand  ;  troth,  he  wuU'd  me  introduce  him  to  you  ; 
he's  without. 

Mort.     Admit  him. 

Col.  Gude  faith,  he  has  done  that  for  himsall ;  he's  not 
habituated  to  our  ceremonies  Maister  Mortimer,  I  pray 
heaven  take  you  to  its  holy  keeping  till  I  see  you  again.  [Exit.] 
[Enter  Aubrey.'] 

Auh.  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant.  Can  you  forgive 
the  intrusion  of  a  stranger  ? 

Mort.  A  stranger,  sir,  is  welcome — I  cannot  always  say 
as  much  to  an  acquaintance. 

Auh.  I  plainly  see  your  experience  of  mankind,  by  the 
value  you  put  upon  them 


394  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Mort.  True,  sir;  I've  visited  the  world  from  arctic  to 
eclipt'c,  as  a  surgeon  does  an  hospital,  and  find  all  men  sick 
of  some  distemper.  The  impertinent  part  of  mankind  are  so 
busy,  the  busy  so  impertinent,  and  both  so  incurably  addict- 
ed to  lying,  cheating  arid  betraying,  that  their  case  is  des- 
perate ;  no  corrosive  can  eat  deep  enough  to  bottom  the  cor- 
ruption. 

Aub.  Well,  sir,  with  such  good  store  of  mental  provision 
about  you,  you  may  stand  out  a  siege  against  society  ;  your 
books  are  companions  you  can  never  be  tired  of 

Mort.  Why,  truly,  their  company  is  more  tolerable  than 
that  of  their  authors  would  be.  I  can  bear  them  on  my 
shelves,  though  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  the  impertinent  pup- 
pies who  wrote  them :  however,  sir,  I  can  quarrel  with  my 
books,  too,  when  they  offend  my  virtue  or  my  reason.  But 
I'm  taking  up  your  time  ;  the  honest  Scotchman,  who  an- 
nounced you,  told  me  you  had  something  of  importance  to 
communicate  to  me. 

Aub.  I  have.  I'm  told  I  am  your  debtor,  and  I  came 
with  a  design  to  pay  you  down  such  thanks  as  your  benev- 
olence well  merits  ;  but  I  perceive  already  you  are  one 
whom  great  professions  would  annoy  ;  whose  principle  is 
virtue,  and  whose  retribution  arises  from  within. 

Mort.  Pray,  sir,  no  more  of  this  ;  if  you  have  anything 
to  request,  propose  it :  I'd  much  rather  be  told  what  I  ma^ 
do  for  you,  than  reminded  of  what  I  may  have  done. 

Aub.  I  readily  believe  you  ;  and,  according  to  your  hu- 
mor, will  address  you.  I  own  you  may  confer  a  benefit  upon 
me  ;  'tis  in  your  power,  Mr.  Mortimer,  to  make  me  the  hap- 
piest of  all  mankind. 

Mort.     Give  me  your  hand  ;   why,  now  you  speak  good  ' 
sense ;  I   like  this  well :  let  us  do  good,  sir,  and  not  talk 
about  it ;  show  but  how  I  may  give  happiness  to  you,  with 
innocence  to  myself,  and  I  shall  be  the  person  under  obliga- 
tion. ■ 

Aub.  This,  then,  it  is :  you  have  a  young  person  under 
your  protection,  a  lady  of  the  name  of  Aubrey — 

Mort.     I  have. 

Aub.     Resign  her  to  my  care. 

Mart.     Sir ! 

Aub.  Put  her  into  my  hands:  I  am  rich,  sir  ;  I  can  sup- 
port her. 

Mort.  You're  insolent,  or  grossly  ignorant,  to  think  I 
would  betray  a  trust,  a  sacred  trust ;  she  is  a  ward  of  virtue : 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  395 

'tis  from  want,  'tis  from  oppression,  I  protect  Miss  Aubrey. 
Who  are  you.  that  think  to  make  a  traitor  of  me  ? 

Aufj.  Your  zeal  does  honor  to  you  ;  yet  if  you  persist  in 
it,  and  spite  of  my  protest  hold  out,  your  constancy  will  be 
no  virtue  :  it  must  take  another  name. 

Mart.  What  other  name  ?  Throw  off  your  mystery,  and 
tell  me  why. 

Aub.     Jiecause — 

Mart.     Ay,  let  us  hear  your  cause. 

Aub.     Because  1  am  her  father. 

Mori.     Do  I  live  ? 

Aub.  Yes,  in  my  heart,  while  I  have  life  or  memory. 
That  dear,  injured  girl,  whom  you  so  honorably  protect,  is 
my  daughter.  The  overflowings  of  a  father's  heart,  bless 
and  reward  you  !  You,  whom  I  know  not,  and  that  poor 
Highlander,  out  of  his  small  pittance,  have,  under  Provi- 
dence, preserved  my  child ;  whilst  Bridgemore,  whom  I 
raised  from  penury,  and  trusted  with  the  earnings  of  my 
travel,  has  abandoned  and  defrauded  her. 

Mort.  Oh  !  mother  nature,  thou'lt  compel  me  to  forswear 
thee. 

Aub.  Ah  !  sir,  you  feel  the  villainy  of  man  in  every  vein  , 
I  am  more  practiced,  and  behold  it  only  with  a  sigh.  Colin 
and  I  have  laid  a  little  plot  to  draw  this  Bridgcmore  hither: 
he  believes  me  dead,  and  thinks  he  is  to  meet  a  person  at 
your  house,  who  can  relate  particulars  of  my  death  ;  in  which 
case,  it  is  clear,  he  means  to  sink  a  capital  consignment  I 
sent  him  about  three  years  since,  and  turn  my  daughter  on 
the  world. 

Mort.  Well,  let  him  come  ;  next  to  the  satisfaction  I  re- 
ceive in  the  prosperity  of  an  honest  man,  I  am  best  pleased 
with  the  confusion  of  a  rascal      [Ea^eunt.] 

Scene  4. — An  apartment  in  Mortimer's  House. 

[Mortimer,  Aicbrei/,  and  Napthali  discovered.] 

Mort  And  these  are  all  the  money  dealings  you  have 
had  with  Lord  Abberville  ? 

Nap.  That  is  the  amount  of  his  debt ;  the  bonds  and 
contracts  are  in  Bridgemore's  hands. 

Mort.  You  see  your  money  has  not  slept  in  Bridgemore'e 
keeping:  your  consignment.  Mr.  Aubrey,  is  put  to  pretty 
good  interest.     \_Mortiiner  looks  over  Ids  2}cipers.] 

Nap.     Aubrey  !     Is  your  name  Aubrey,  may  I  ask '? 


896  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Aub.     It  is. 

JVap.     Have  you  had  any  dealings  with  Mr.  Bridgemore? 

Aub.     To  my  cost. 

JVap.  Did  you  consign  him  merchandise  from  Scande- 
roon  ? 

Aub.     I  am  the  person  who  was  guilty  of  that  folly. 

JS^ap.     Bridgemore,  I  believe,  thought  you  were  dead. 

Aub.  I  take  it  for  granted  he  would  gladly  have  me  so. 
But  do  you  know  anything  of  that  consignment? 

JVap.  Eh!  Do  I  know  of  it?  I  had  better  make  a 
friend  of  him ;  'tis  up  with  Bridgemore,  fait ;  there  is  no 
senses  in  serving  him  any  longer,  [Aside.'\  Why,  you 
shall  know,  sir,  I  was  Bridgemore's  broker  for  your  mer- 
chandise: here  is  the  abstract  of  the  net  proceeds.  [Gives 
a  iiaper  to  Aubrey  ] 

Moit.  That's  lucky,  as  I  live.  I  see  an  honest  man  can 
never  want  weapons  to  defeat  a  knave.  And  pray,  sir,  what 
might  be  your  profit  on  this  sale :  double  commission  for  a 
breach  of  trust :  that  is  the  rule  of  the  trade,  I  think  ? 

Na^.  I  work  as  others :  I  do  nothing  below  market 
price. 

Mcyrt.  You're  right,  sir,  'twould  be  starving  many  an 
honest  family,  if  you  made  roguery  too  cheap :  but  get  you 
gone  together  to  my  library  ;  I  observe  a  person  coming, 
who  will  interrupt  you.  \Addel\  Hark  ye  !  Mr.  Aubrey, 
have  an  eye  to  our  Jew. 

Aub.  Trust  him  to  me ;  I'm  pretty  well  accustomed  to 
their  dealings.     \F.xeunt^ 

\  Enter  a  Servant^  introducing  Bridgemore^ 

Serv.  Please  to  walk  in  here  ;  my  master  will  wait  upon 
you  immediately. 

Bridge.  Nobody  here !  Hark  ye,  friend,  I  expected  to 
meet  a  stranger,  a  gentleman  just  landed  from  Scanderoon. 
Know  you  of  such  an  one? 

Serv.  He  is  now  in  the  house,  and  with  Mr.  Mortimer, 
will  wait  upon  you  presently.     [Exit.] 

Bridge.  That's  well,  that's  well ;  as  for  old  Surlyboots, 
I  could  well  spare  his  company ;  'tis  a  strange  dogged  fel- 
low, and  execrated  by  all  mankind. 

[Enter  Mortimer] 

Mo7't.  Mr.  Bridgemore,  you  come  here  upon  a  melan- 
choly errand. 

Bridge.  True,  sir ;  but  death,  you  know,  is  common  to 
all  men  :  I  looked  to  meet  a  gentleman  here  ;  this  is  all  lost 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  897 

time;  I  hope  to  receive  information  that  will  reward  me 
for  the  charity  oestowcd  upon  poor  Aubrey's  unworthy 
daughter. 

Mart.  Charity!  Hold  your  audacious  tongue:  let  con-^ 
science  keep  you  silent.  We  are.  sir.  now  alone ;  and  if  it 
needs  must  be  that  one  of  us  shall  come  to  shame,  'tis  well 
we  are  so.  It  is  thought  I  am  a  hard,  unfeeling  man  ;  let 
it  be  so;  you  shall  have  justice,  notwithstanding:  inno- 
cence requires  no  more.  You  are  accused ;  defend  your- 
self. 

Bridge.     Accused  of  what?  and  who  is  my  accuser? 

Mart.  A  man  ;  and  you  shall  face  him  like  a  man. 
Who  waits? — [Enter  Servant.] — Desire  the  stranger  to 
come  hither  [Exit  Servant.]  Fear  nothing ;  we're 
enough  to  try  this  question  ;  where  the  human  heart  is 
present,  and  the  appeal  is  made  to  heaven,  no  jury  need  be 
summoned.  Here  is  a  stranger  has  the  confidence  to  say, 
that  your  pretensions  to  charity  are  false ;  nay.  he  arraigns 
your  honesty :  a  charge  injurious  to  any  man.  but  mortal  to 
a  trader,  and  leveled  at  the  vital  root  of  his  profession. 

Bridge.  Ay,  'tis  the  Turkey  merchant.  I  suppose ;  let 
him  come  in  ;  I  know  upon  what  ground  I  stand,  and  am 
afraid  of  no  man  living 

Movt.  We  shall  try  that.  [Aside.']  Do  you  know  this 
gentleman? 

[Enter  Aubrey.'] 

Bridge.     Aubrey ! 

Aub.     Thou  wretch. 

Bridge.     He  lives  ! 

Aub.  To  thy  confusion. — Raised  by  the  bounty  of  my 
family,  is  this  your  gratitude?  When  in  the  bitterness  of 
my  distress,  I  put  an  infant  daughter  in  your  hands,  the 
last  weak  scion  of  a  noble  stock,  was  it  to  rob  me.  you  re- 
ceived her?  To  plunder  and  defraud  a  helpless  orphan,  as 
you  thought  her,  and  rise  upon  the  ruins  of  your  benefactor's 
fortune? 

Bridge.  Oh  !  I  am  trepanned.  How  shall  I  iook  my 
wife  and  daughter  in  the  face?     [Aside.] 

Aub.  Where  have  you  lodged  the  money  I  deposited 
with  you  at  parting?  I  find  my  daughter  destitute  !  What 
have  you  done  with  the  remittances  I  sent  from  time  to 
time?  But  above  all,  where  is  the  produce  of  the  Neptune's 
cargo?  Villain,  look  here  I  have  the  proofs;  this  is  the 
abstract  of  the  sale  ;  if  you  dispute  it  I  am  here  provided 

34 


398  NKW  SCHOOL  dialogues, 

with  a  witness,  your  Jew  broker,  ready  at  hand,  to  attest  ib 
to  your  face. 

Bridge.  Expose  me  not ;  I  will  refund  to  the  last  farth 
ing  ;  I  dispute  nothing  ;  call  him  not  in. 

Mort.  There's  no  occasion  for  witnesses  when  a  man 
pleads  guilty.  Let  him  escape,  he's  detected ;  let  his  con- 
science add  the  rest. 

Aub.  It  shall  be  so.  There,  sir,  your  pardon  be  youi 
punishment;  it  was  my  money  only  you  attempted;  my 
choicest  treasure  you  have  left  untouched.  Now  go  and 
profit  by  this  meeting :  I  will  not  expose  you  ;  learn  of  your 
fraternity,  a  more  honorable  practice,  and  let  integrity  for- 
ever remain  the  inseparable  characteristic  of  an  English 
merchant.  [Exeunt. 1 


XXXy.— FROM  THE  WEST  miilA.'S .—Cumberland. 

LADY    RUSPORT CHARLOTTE    RUSPORT,  HER    DAUGHTER-IN-LAW 

CHARLES     DUDLEY.    NEPHEW    TO     LADY    RUSPORT MAJOR 

o'fLAGHERTY,    an    IRISH    OFFICER VARLAND,    A    LAWYER 

CAPTAIN  DUDLEY,  FATHER  OF  CHARLES. 

Scene  1. — A  room  in  Lady  Rusport's  House. 

[Enter  Lady  Rusport  and  Charlotte.'] 

Lady  Rusport.  Miss  Kusport,  I  desire  to  hear  no  more 
of  Captain  Dudley  and  his  destitute  family ;  not  a  shilling 
of  mine  shall  ever  cross  the  hands  of  any  of  them.  Be- 
cause my  sister  chose  to  marry  a  beggar,  am  I  bound  to 
support  him  and  his  posterity  ? 

Charlotte.     I  think  you  are. 

L.  Rus.  You  think  I  am  !  And  pray,  where  do  you 
find  the  law  that  tells  you  so  ? 

Char.  I  am  not  proficient  enough  to  quote  chapter  and 
verse ;  but  I  take  charity  to  be  a  main  article  in  the  -great 
statute  of  Christianity. 

L.  Rus.  Charity,  indeed  !  And  pray,  miss,  are  you  sure 
that  it  is  charity,  pure  charity,  which  moves  you  to  plead  for 
Captain  Dudley?  An.ongst  all  your  pity,  do  you  find  no 
epice  of  a  certain  anti  spiritual  passion,  called  love?     Don't 


COMIC    AXD     \iMUSING.  399 

mistake  yourself;  you  are  not  a  saint  child  believe  me. 
And  I  am  apt  to  think  the  distresses  of  old  Dudley  and  his 
daughter  would  never  break  your  heart  if  there  w.  s  not  a 
certain  young  fellow  of  two-and  twenty  in  the  case,  who,  by 
the  happy  recommendation  of  a  good  person,  and  the  bril- 
liant appointment  of  an  ensign,  will  if  I  am  not  mistaken, 
cozen  you  out  of  a  fortune  of  twice  twenty  thousand  pounds, 
when  you  are  of  age  to  bestow  it  upon  him. 

Char.  A  nephew  of  your  ladyship  can  never  want  any 
other  recommendation  with  me ;  and  if  my  partiality  for 
Charles  Dudley  is  acquitted  by  the  rest  of  the  world,  I  hope 
Lady  Rusport  will  not  condemn  me  lor  it. 

L.  Ilus.  1  condemn  you  !  I  thank  heaven,  Miss  Rus- 
port,  I  am  no  ways  responsible  for  your  conduct,  nor  is  it 
any  concern  of  mine  how  you  dispose  of  yourself;  you  are 
not  my  daughter,  and  when  I  married  your  father,  poor  Sir 
Stephen  Rusport,  I  found  you  a  forward,  spoiled  miss  of 
fourteen,  far  above  being  instructed  by  me. 

Char.     Perhaps  your  ladyship  calls  this  instruction. 

L.  Rus.  You  are  strangely  pert  But  it  is  no  wonder  ; 
your  mother,  I  am  told,  was  a  fine  lady,  and  brought  you 
up  accordingly.  It  was  not  so  in  my  young  days ;  there 
was  then  some  decorum  in  the  world,  some  subordination, 
as  the  great  Locke  expresses  it.  Oh  I  'twas  an  edifying 
sight  to  see  the  regular  deportment  observed  in  our  family ; 
no  giggling,  no  gossiping  was  going  on  there.  My  good 
father,  Sir  Oliver  Roundhead,  never  was  seen  to  laugh  him- 
self, nor  ever  allowed  it  in  any  of  his  children. 

Char.     Ay,  those  were  happy  times  indeed  ! 

L.  Rus.  But  in  this  forward  age,  we  have  coquettes  in 
the  egg-shell,  and  philosophers  in  the  cradle ;  girls  of  fif- 
teen, who  lead  the  fashion  in  new  caps  and  new  opinions ; 
who  have  their  sentiments  and  their  sensations  ;  and  the 
idle  fops  encourage  them  in  it.  0.  ;ny  conscience,  I  wonder 
what  it  is  the  men  can  see  in  such  babies  ! 

Char.  True,  madam ;  but  all  men  do  not  overlook  the 
maturer  beauties  of  your  ladyship's  age ;  witness  Major 
O'Flagherty — there's  an  example  of  some  discernment.  T 
declare  to  you,  when  your  ladyship  is  by.  the  major  takes 
no  more  notice  of  me  than  if  I  were  a  piece  of  furniture. 

L.  Rus.  The  major,  child,  has  traveled  through  various 
kingdoms  and  climates,  and  has  more  enlarged  notions  of 
female  merit  than  falls  to  the  lot  of  an  English  home-bred 


400  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUTi:S. 

lover.     In  most  other  countries,  no  woman  on  your  side  of 
forty  would  ever  be  named  in  a  polite  circle. 

Char.  Right,  madam.  I've  been  told  that  in  Vienna 
they  have  coquettes  upon  crutches  and  a  lover  there  cele- 
brates the  wrinkles,  not  the  dimples,  in  his  mistress'  face. 
The  major,  I  think,  has  resided  there. 

L  Riis.  Are  you  piqued,  my  young  madam  1.  Had  my 
sister  Louisa  yielded  to  the  addresses  of  one  of  Major  O'Flagh- 
erty's  person  and  appearance  she  would  have  had  some 
excuse;  but  to  run  away,  as  she  did.  at  the  age  of  sixteen 
too  with  a  man  of  old  Dudley's  sort — 

Char.  Was,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  venial  trespass  that 
ever  a  girl  of  sixteen  committed.  Of  a  noble  family,  and 
sound  understanding  what  accomplishment  was  there  want- 
ing in  Captain  Dudley,  but  that  of  which  the  prodigality 
of  his  ancestors  deprived  him. 

L.  Rus.  They  left  him  as  much  as  he  deserves.  Has  not 
the  old  man  a  captain's  half  pay ;  and  is  not  the  son  an  en- 
sign ?     [  With  a  sneer.'] 

Char.     An  ensign  !    Alas,  poor  Charles!  would  to  heaven 
he  knew  how  my  heart  feels  and  suffers  for  him. 
[Servant  e?tters.] 

Servant.     Ensign  Dudley,  to  wait  upon  your  ladyship. 

L.  Rus.  Who  ?  Dudley  ?  What  can  have  brought  him 
to  town  ? 

Char.     Dear  madam,  it  is  Charles  Dudley,  your  nephew. 

L.  Rus.  Nephew !  I  renounce  him  as  my  nephew  ;  Sir 
Oliver  renounced  him  as  a  grandson.  Wasn't  he  son  of  the 
eldest  daughter,  and  only  male  descendant  of  Sir  Oliver,  and 
didn't  he  cut  him  off  with  a  shilling  ?  Didn't  the  poor,  dear 
man,  leave  his  whole  fortune  to  me?  And  depend  upon  it, 
not  a  penn)"  of  that  fortune  shall  ever  be  disposed  of  other- 
wise than  according  to  the  will  of  the  donor.  [Charles  Dud- 
ley enters.]     So,  young  man,  what  brings  you  to  town  ? 

Dudley.     Business. 

D.  Rus.  Business,  indeed  !  And  where  is  your  father, 
child,  and  your  sister?     Are  they  in  town,  too? 

Diid.     They  are 

L.  Rus.  Ridiculous.  I  don't  know  what  people  do  in 
London,  who  have  no  money  to  spend  in  it. 

Char.  Dear  madam,  speak  more  kindly  to  your  nephew; 
how  can  you  oppress  a  youth  of  his  sensibility  ? 

L.  Rus.  Miss  Rusport,  I  insist  upon  your  retiring  to  youi 
apartment ;  when  I  want  your  advice.  I  will  send  for  you. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  401 

[Exit  Charlotte.]  So.  you  have  put  on  the  red  coat,  too,  as 
well  as  your  father ;  'tis  plain  what  value  you  set  upon  the 
good  advice  Sir  Oliver  used  to  give  you  ;  how  often  has  he 
cautioned  you  against  the  army  ? 

Dud.  Had  it  pleased  my  grandfather  to  enable  me.  to 
have  obeyed  this  caution.  I  would  have  done  so;  but  you 
well  know  how  destitute  I  am.  Necessity,  and  not  choice, 
determined  me 

L.  Rus.  Well,  well,  take  your  own  course  ;  'tis  no  con- 
cern of  mine;  you  never  consulted  me. 

Dud.  I  frequently  wrote  to  your  ladyship,  but  could  ob- 
tain no  answer:  and  since  my  grandfather's  death,  this  is 
the  first  opportunity  I  have  had  of  waiting  upon  you. 

L.  Rus.  [Affectedly.']  I  must  desire  you  not  to  mention 
the  death  of  that  dear,  good  man,  in  my  hearing  :  my  spirits 
cannot  support  it. 

Dud.  I  shall  obey  you  ;  permit  me  to  say,  that  as  that 
event  has  richly  supplied  you  with  materials  of  bounty, 
the  distresses  of  my  family  can  furnish  you  with  objects 
of  it. 

L.  Rus.  The  distresses  of  your  family,  child,  are  quite 
out  of  the  question  at  present.  Had  Sir  Oliver  been  pleased 
to  consider  them.  I  should  have  been  well  content:  but  he 
has  absolutely  taken  no  notice  of  you  in  his  will,  and  that  to 
me  must  and  shall  be  law.  Tell  your  father  and  your  sister 
I  totally  disapprove  of  their  coming  up  to  town. 

Dud.  Must  I  tell  him  that,  before  your  ladyship  knows 
the  motive  that  brought  him  hither?  Allured  by  the  offer 
of  exchanging  for  a  commission  on  full  pay,  the  veteran, 
after  thirty  years'  service,  prepares  to  encounter  the  fatal 
heats  of  Senegambia,  but  wants  a  small  supply  to  equip  him 
for  his  expedition. 

[Servant  e?iters.] 

Serv.     Major  O'Flagherty,  to  wait  on  your  ladyship. 
[Major  enlers.] 

OFlagherty.  Spare  your  speeches,  sir  ;  don't  you  think 
her  ladyship  can  take  my  word  for  that?  I  hope,  madainT 
'tis  evidence  enough  of  my  being  present,  when  I  have  the 
honor  of  telling  you  so  myself. 

L.  Rus.  Major  O'Flagherty,  I  am  rejoiced  to  see  you. 
You  see.  child  I  am  engaged. 

Dud.  I  shall  not  intrude  upon  your  ladyship's  more 
agreejible  engagements.     I  presume  I  have  my  answer 

L.  Rus.     Your  answer,  child !     What  answer  do  you  ex- 
2B  34'' 


402  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

pect?  Of,  how  can  your  romantic  father  suppose  that  T  am 
to  abet  him  in  all  his  idle  and  extravagant  undertakings? 
Come,  major,  let  me  show  you  the  way  into  my  dressing- 
room,  and  let  us  leave  this  young  adventurer  to  his  medita- 
tion.    [Exit.li 

Maj.  I  follow  you,  my  lady.  Young  gentleman  your 
obedient.  [Aside.]  Upon  my  conscience,  as  fine  a  fellow 
as  I'd  wish  to  clap  my  eyes  on  Fare  thee  well,  honey, 
whoever  thou  art.     [Exit.] 

Dud.     So  much  for  the  virtues  of  my  aunt.     [Going.] 
[Enter  Miss  Rusjjort.] 

Char.  Stop,  stay  a  moment.  Charles,  whither  are  you 
going  in  such  haste  ? 

Dud.     Miss  E-usport,  what  are  your  commands  ? 

Char.  Why  so  reserved  ?  We  used  to  answer  to  no 
other  names  than  Charles  and  Charlotte. 

Dud.     What  ails  you.  you've  been  weeping  ? 

Char.  No,  no  ;  or  if  I  have,  your  eyes  are  full,  too.  But 
I've  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  you.  Have  you  taken  lodg- 
ings ? 

Dud.  I  have  ;  but  why  should  you  desire  to  find  us  out? 
'Tis  a  poor,  little,  inconvenient  place  ;  my  sister  has  no  apart- 
ment fit  to  receive  you  in. 

[Enter  Servant.] 

Serv.     Madam,  my  lady  desires  your  company. 

Char.  1  am  coming.  Good-bye,  Charles.  [Exeunt^  in 
different  directions.] 

Scene  2. 

[Lady  Rusport  enters.,  leaning  on  Major  O^Flaglierty.] 

OFlag.  Rest  yourself  upon  my  arm — never  spare  it.  'tis 
strong  enough.  It  has  stood  harder  service  than  you  can 
put  it  to. 

[Enter  Charlotte.] 

Char.  Mercy  on  me.  what  is  the  matter?  Has  youi 
ladyship  had  an  accident? 

L.  Riis  0,  Charlotte,  the  most  dreadful  one  in  nature  ; 
I  know  not  how  I  shall  repair  it. 

OFlag.  Never  go  about  to  repair  it,  my  lady  ;  even 
build  a  new  one  -'twas  a  very  crazy  piece  of  furniture,  at 
best. 

Char.  Bless  me,  has  the  old  chariot  broke  down  with 
you  again  ? 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  403 

L.  Rus.  Broke,  child !  T  don't  know  what  wouldn't 
have  been  broke,  if  by  great  good  fortune  this  obliging  gen- 
tleman had  not  been  at  hand  to  assist  me. 

Char.  Dear  madam,  let  me  run  and  fetch  you  a  cup  of 
the  cordial  drops.     [Exit.] 

L.  Rus.  Do,  Charlotte  Alas,  sir,  ever  since  I  lost  my 
husband,  my  poor  nerves  have  been  shook  to  pieces  ;  there 
hangs  his  beloved  picture  :  that  precious  relic,  and  a  plenti- 
ful jointure,  are  all  that  remains  to  console  me  for  that  best 
of  men.  Yes,  he  has  gone  and  left  me  a  poor,  weak,  solitary 
widow,  behind  him. 

OFlag.  By  all  means,  then,  take  a  strong,  able,  hearty 
man,  to  repair  his  loss.  Dennis  O'Flagherty,  no  doubt,  is 
as  good. 

L.  Rus.  What  are  you  a  going  to  say  1  Do  not  shock 
my  ears  with  any  comparisons,  I  beseech  you. 

OFlag.  Not  I,  by  my  soul.  There's  no  comparison  in 
the  case. 

[Enter  Charlotte.'] 

L.  Rus.  0,  are  you  come  ?  Give  me  the  drops,  I'm  all 
in  a  flutter. 

L.  Rus.  [After  drinldng'.\  Well,  major,  did  you  give 
old  Dudley  my  letter,  and  will  the  silly  man  do  as  I  bid  him, 
and  be  gone  ? 

O'Flag.     You  are  obeyed  ;  he's  on  his  march. 

L.  Rus.  That's  well,  you've  managed  the  matter  to  per- 
fection ;  I  did  not  think  he  would  have  been  so  easily  pre- 
vailed upon. 

Char.  [Aside.]  This  is  too  much;  I'll  see  them  ere  I 
sleep.     [Exit.] 

OFlag.  No  difficulty  at  all.  He  went* at  the  first  word. 
'Twas  the  very  thing  he  had  determined  to  do  before  I  came. 
I  never  met  a  more  engaging  man. 

L.  Rus.  Well  'tis  no  matter,  so  T  am  but  rid  of  them 
and  their  distresses.  Would  you  believe  it.  Major  O'Flagh- 
erty, it  was  but  this  morning  he  sent  a  begging  to  me  for 
money  to  fit  him  out  upon  some  wild  goose  expedition  to  the 
coast  of  Africa  ? 

OFlag.     Well,  you  sent  him  what  he  wanted  ? 

L.  Rus.     I  sent  him  what  he  deserved,  a  flat  refusal. 

OFlag.     You  refused  him  ! 

i.  Rus.     Most  undoubtedly, 
O'Flag.     You  sent  him  nothing  ! 
i.  Rus.     Not  a  shilling. 


404  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

OFlag,     Good  morning  to  you — your  servant- -  [ Going.\ 

L.  Rus.  Heyday  !  what  ails  the  man  ?  Where  are  you 
going-? 

OFlas:.  Out  of  your  house  before  the  roof  falls  on  my 
head,  and  back  to  poor  Dudley,  to  share  with  him  the  little 
money  that  thirty  years'  hard  service  has  left  me.  I  wish 
it  was  more  for  his  sake. 

L.  Rus.  Very  well  sir,  take  your  own  course.  I  shan't 
attempt  to  stop  you.  I  shall  survive  it ;  it  will  not  break 
my  heart  if  I  never  see  you  more. 

OF/ag.  Break  your  heart !  No  o'  my  conscience  will 
it  not.  You  preach  and  you  pray,  and  you  turn  up  your 
eyes,  and  all  the  while  are  as  hard-hearted  as  a  hyena. 
lExit.^^ 

L.  Rus.  A  hyena,  truly !  Very  well,  Major  Dennis 
O'Flagherty  I 

[Enter  Servant.^ 

Servant.  An  elderly  gentleman,  who  says  his  name  is 
Varland,  desires  leave  to  wait  on  your  ladyship. 

L.  Rus.  Show  him  in  [Exit  Servant.]  The  very  man 
I  wish  to  see  :  he  was  Sir  Oliver's  solicitor  and  privy  to  all 
his  affairs  ;  he  doubtl  -s.s  brings  some  good  lidings  some  fresh 
mortgage  or  another  bond  come  to  light ;  they  start  up  every 
day.  [  Varland  enters.]  Mr.  Varland.  I'm  glad  to  see  you  ; 
you're  heartily  welcome,  honest  Mr.  Varland  ;  you  and  I 
have  not  met  since  our  late  irreparable  loss ;  how  have  you 
passed  your  time,  this  age  1 

Var.  Truly,  ray  lady,  ill  enough.  I  thought  I  must 
have  followed  good  Sir  Oliver. 

L  Rus.  Alack  a  day,  poor  man  !  Well.  Mr.  Varland, 
you  find  me  here  overwhelmed  with  trouble,  and  torn  to 
pieces  with  a  multiplicity  of  affairs ;  a  great  fortune  poured 
upon  me  unsought  for  and  unexpected ;  but  it  was  my  good 
father's  will  and  pleasure  it  should  be  so,  and  I  must  sub- 
mit. 

Var.  Your  ladyship  inherits  under  a  will  made  in  the 
year  forty  five,  immediately  after  Captain  Dudley's  marriage 
with  your  sister. 

L  Rus.     I  do  so,  Mr.  Varland.  T  do  so. 
Var.     I  well  remember  it ;   T  engrossed  every  syllable  ; 
but  I  am  surprised  to  find  your  ladyship  sets  so  little  store 
by  this  vast  accession. 

L.  Rus.  Why.  you  know.  Mr.  Varland,  I  am  a  moderate 
woman  ;  I  had  enough  before ;  a  small  matter  satisfies  me , 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  405 

and  Sir  Stephen,  my  late  dear  husband,  took  care  I  should 
not  want  for  that. 

L.  Rus.  Very  true,  very  true,  he  did  so ;  and  I  am  over- 
joyed to  find  your  ladyship  in  this  disposition  ;  for  truth  to 
say,  I  was  not  without  apprehension,  the  news  I  have  to 
communicate  would  have  been  some  prejudice  to  your  lady- 
ship's tranquillity. 

L.  Rus      News,  sir !     What  news  have  you  for  me  ? 

Var.  Nay,  nothing  alarming,  in  your  present  way  of 
thinking.  I  have  a  will  of  Sir  Oliver's  you  have  never 
seen. 

L.  Rus.  A  will  !  Impossible  !  How  came  you  by  it, 
pray? 

Var  I  drew  it  up  by  his  command  in  his  last  illness. 
It  will  save  you  a  world  of  trouble;  it  gives  his  whole  es- 
tate to  his  grandson,  Charles  Dudley. 

L.  Rus.  To  Dudley  !  His  estate  to  Charles  Dudley  !  I 
can't  support  it !  I  shall  faint !  You've  killed  me,  you  vile 
man  !     I  never  shall  survive  it ! 

Var.  Look'e  there  now ;  I  protest  I  thought  you  would 
have  rejoiced  at  being  clear  of  the  incumbrance. 

L.  Rus.  'Tis  false!  'tis  all  a  forgery  concerted  be- 
tween you  and  Dudley  ;  why  else  did  T  never  hear  of  it  be- 
fore ? 

Var.  Have  patience,  my  lady,  and  I  will  tell  you.  By 
Sir  Oliver's  direction,  I  was  to  deliver  this  will  into  no  hands 
but  his  grandson's  Charles  Dudley's.  The  young  gentle- 
man happened  to  be  then  in  Scotland ;  I  was  despatched 
thither  in  search  of  him  ;  the  hurry  and  fatigue  of  my  jour- 
ney brought  on  a  fever  by  the  way.  which  confined  me  for 
several  days.  Upon  my  recovery.  I  pursued  my  journey, 
found  that  young  Dudley  had  left  Scotland  in  the  interim, 
and  am  now  directed  hither,  where,  as  soon  as  I  can  find 
him,  doubtless  I  shall  discharge  my  conscience,  and  fulfill 
my  commission. 

L.  Rus.  Dudley,  then,  as  yet.  knows  nothing  of  this 
will  ? 

Var.     Nothing  ;   that  secret  rests  with  me 

L.  Rus  [Appears  thoughtful  a  moment.]  Come,  Mr. 
Varland.  if  'tis  as  you  say.  I  must  submit.  I  was  some- 
what flurried  at  first  and  forgot  myself;  I  ask  your  pardon  : 
this  is  no  place  to  talk  of  business,  for  I  hear  footsteps 
Come  with  me  into  my  room — we  will  there  compare  the 
will  and  resolve  accordingly.     [ExeurU.'\ 


406  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOG LTF.S. 

\  Enter  CFlagherty  and  Charlotte^ 

Char.     Whither  were  you  running  so  hastily,  major? 

O'Flag.     Out  of  the  house  to  Dudley. 

Char.     To  Dudley  ! 

QFIag  Ay.  to  Dudley.  No  fellow  soldier  shall  ever 
suffer  while  O'Flagherty  has  a  penny  left  to  prevent  it. 

Char.  Heaven  bless  you.  But  here  comes  my  aunt, 
and  has  cut  off  your  retreat  What  will  you  do?  You 
must  not  meet  her  so  soon  aft^r  such  a  mortal  affront. 

OFlag.     Egad,  I'll  step  behind  this  screen  and  listen;  a 
good  soldier  must  sometimes  fight  in  ambush,  as  well  as  in 
the  open  field.     [Hides  hi?n»e(f.  and  exit  Charlotte.] 
[Enter  Lady  Rusport  and  Yarland\ 

L.  Rus.  Sure  I  heard  some  one  talking  with  Charlotte. 
Hark  !  no  it  could  only  be  she.  talking  to  herself,  doubtless, 
or.  as  she  would  say,  to  the  imagination  of  her  adored 
ensign.  Well  Mr.  Varland  I  think  then  we  are  agreed  ; 
you'll  take  my  money  and  put  your  conscience  out  of  the 
way. 

Var.  Your  father  was  my  [benefactor — his  will  ought  to 
be  served ;  but  if  T  commit  it  to  the  flames,  how  will  he  be 
the  wiser?  Dudley,  it  is  true,  has  done  me  no  harm  ;  but 
five  thousand  pounds  will  do  me  much  good  ;  so,  in  short, 
madam.  I  take  your  offer.  I  will  confer  with  my  clerk, 
who  witnessed  the  will  and  to-morrow  morniug  put  it  into 
your  hands  upon  condition  you  put  five  thousand  good 
pounds  into  mine. 

L  Rus.  'Tis  a  bargain.  I'll  be  ready  for  you  ^  farewell, 
good  Mr  Yarland.     [Exit.] 

Var.  Let  me  consider. — Five  thousand  pounds  prompt 
payment,  for  destroying  this  scrap  of  paper  not  worth  five 
farthings :  'tis  a  fortune  easily  earned  ;  yes.  and  'tis  another 
man's  fortune  easily  thrown  away.  'Tis  a  good  round  sum 
to  be  paid  down  at  once  for  a  bribe,  but  it  is  a  rogue's  trick 
in  me  to  take  it. 

OFhig.  [From  behind  the  screen.\  So,  so,  this  fellow 
speaks  truth  to  himself  though  he  lies  to  other  people. 

Var.  'Tis  breaking  the  trust  of  my  benefactor — that's  a 
foul  crime;  but  he's  dead  and  can  never  reproach  me  with 
it;  and  'tis  robbing  young  Dudley  of  his  lawful  patrimony 
— that's  a  hard  case  but  he's  alive,  and  knows  nothing  of 
It.  Were  I  assured  now  that  Dudley  would  give  me  half 
the  money  for  producing  this  will  that  La^ly  Ku.'^port  does 
fur  concealinjr  it.  t  would  deal   with  him  and  be  an  hones! 


COMTC    AND    AMUSING.  407 

man  at  half  price.  I  wish  every  gentleman  of  my  pro- 
fession could  lay  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  say  the  same 
thing. 

O'Flag.  [Coming  forward.]  A  bargain  old  gentle- 
man !  Nay,  never  start  nor  stare :  you  wasn't  afraid  of 
your  own  conscience — never  be  afraid  of  me. 

Var.     Of  you.  sir  !  who  are  you,  pray  ? 

OFlag.  I'll  tell  you  who  i  am  ;  you  seem  to  wish  to 
be  honest,  but  want  the  heart  to  set  about  it;  now  I'm  the 
very  man  in  the  world  to  assist  you.  for  if  you  do  not  give 
up  the  paper  this  very  instant,  by  the  blood  of  my  soul, 
I'll  not  leave  one  whole  bone  in  your  skin  that  sha'nt  be 
broken. 

Var.  What  right  have  you.  pray,  to  take  this  paper  from 
me? 

OFlag.  What  right  have  you,  pray,  to  keep  it  from 
young  Dudley?  I  don't  know  what  it  contains,  but  I  am 
apt  to  think  it  will  be  safer  in  my  hands  than  in  yours ; 
therefore,  give  it  me  without  more  words  and  save  yourself 
a  beating. 

Var.  Well,  I  may  as  well  make  a  grace  of  necessity. 
There,  [^giving  him  the  paper.]  I  have  acquitted  my  con- 
science at  the  expense  of  five  thousand  pounds. 

OFlag.  Five  thousand  pounds  !  mercy  on  me  !  When 
there  are  such  temptations  in  the  law,  can  we  wonder  if 
some  of  the  corps  are  a  disgrace  to  it? 

Var.  Well  you  have  got  the  paper;  if  you  are  an  hon- 
est man,  give  it  to  Charles  Dudley. 

OFlag.  kx\  honest  man  !  Look  at  me,  friend ;  I  am  a 
soldier — this  is  not  the  livery  of  a  knave ;  I  am  an  Irish- 
man, honey — mine  is  not  the  country  of  dishonor.  Now, 
sirrah,  begone ;  and  if  you  enter  these  doors,  or  give  Lady 
Rusport  the  least  item  of  what  has  passed,  I  will  cut  off 
both  your  ears,  and  rob  the  pillory  of  its  due.     [Eoceunt.] 

Scene  3. — Captain  Dudley's  Lodgings. 

{Enter  0' Flagherty .] 

OFlag.  Joy.  joy,  joy  !  sing,  dance,  leap,  laugh,  for  joy  ! 
Ha'  done  making  love,  and  fall  down  on  your  knees  to  every 
saint  in  the  calendar,  for  they're  all  on  your  side  and  honest 
Saint  Patrick  at  the  head  of  them. 

Charles.  0  Charlotte,  such  an  event  !  By  the  luckiest 
chance  in  life,  we  have  discovered  a  will  of  my  grandfather's. 


408  NEW   SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

made  in  his  last  illness,  by  which  he  cuts  off  Lady  Eusport 
with  a  small  annuity,  and  leaves  me  heir  to  the  whole  estate. 

Cltar.  Is  it  possible  !  Then  you  will  not  stand  in 
need  of  my  assistance.  I  almost  hate  this  change  of  for- 
tune. 

Captain  Dudley.  It  is  the  work  of  Providence,  not  for- 
tune ;  'tis  the  justice  of  heaven,  which  would  not  suffer  in- 
nocence to  be  oppressed. 

OFlag.  You  shall  pardon  me.  Captain  Dudley,  but  you 
must  not  overlook  St.  Patrick  neither,  for,  by  my  soul,  if 
he  had  not  put  it  into  my  head  to  slip  behind  the  screen, 
when  your  righteous  aunt  and  the  lawyer  were  plotting  to- 
gether. I  don't  see  how  you  would  ever  have  come  at  the 
paper  there. 

Capt.  Dud.  True,  my  good  friend,  you  are  the  father 
of  this  discovery  ;  but  how  did  you  contrive  to  get  this  will 
from  the  lawyer? 

OFlag.  By  force,  my  dear — the  only  way  of  getting 
anything  from  a  lawyer's  clutches. 

Capt.  Dud.  Well,  major,  when  he  brings  his  action  of 
assault  and  battery  against  you,  the  least  Charles  can  do, 
is  to  defend  you  with  the  weapons  you  have  put  into  his 
hands. 

Charles.  That  I  am  bound  to  do  ;  and,  after  the  happi- 
ness I  shall  have  in  sheltering  a  father's  age  from  the  vicis- 
situdes of  life,  my  next  delight  will  be  in  offering  you  an 
asylum  in  the  bosom  of  your  country. 

OFlag.  And.  upon  my  soul,  my  dear,  'tis  high  time  I 
was  there,  for,  'tis  now  thirty  long  years  since  I  sat  foot  in 
my  native  country,  and  by  the  power  of  St.  Patrick,  I  think 
it's  worth  the  rest  of  the  world  put  together. 

Capt.  Dud.  Ay,  major,  much  about  that  time  have  I 
been  beating  the  round  of  service,  and  'twere  well  for  us 
both  to  give  over;  we  have  stood  many  a  tough  gale,  and 
abundance  of  hard  blows;  but  Charles  shall  lay  us  up  in  a 
little  private,  but  safe  harbor  where  we'll  rest  from  our  la- 
bors, and  peacefully  wind  up  the  remainder  of  our  days. 

OFlag.  Agreed  ;  and  you  may  take  it  as  a  proof  of  my 
esteem,  young  man.  that  Dennis  O'Flagherty  accepts  a  favor 
at  your  hands  for  he* would  sooner  starve  than  say.  I  thank 
you,  to  the  man  he  despises.  But  I  believe  you  are  an  hon- 
est lad,  and  I'm  glad  you've  trounced  the  old  cat.  for,  on  my 
conscience,  I  believe  I  must  otherwise  have  married  her  my- 
self^ to  have  let  you  in  for  a  share  of  her  fortune. 


*      COMIC    AM)    AMUSING.  •^09 

Capt.  Dud.     And  you,  Charlotte — 

Charles.     Shall  now  be  mine.     \^7hking  her  hand. "] 

Capt.  Dud.     What  says  my  girl  ? 

OFlag.     Begging-  your  pardon,  now,  'tis  a  frivolous  sort 
of  a  question,  that  of  yours  ;  for  you  may  see  plainly  enough 
by  the  young  lady's  looks,  that  she  says  a  great  deal,  though  ■ 
she  speaks  never  a  word. 

[Enter  Lady  Rusport.] 

L.  Rus.  Heyday  !  mighty  fine !  mighty  well !  kissing 
and  embracing  !  Did  ever  anything  equal  this  ?  Why,  you 
shameless  hussy  !  But  I  won't  condescend  to  waste  a  word 
upon  you.  You,  sir — you,  Major  O'Flagherty — is  this  the 
principle  you  trade  upon  ?  Is  this  your  neighborly  system, 
to  entice  away  headstrong  daughters,  that  you  may  sacrifice 
them  on  young,  beggarly  fortune-hunters  ? 

OFlag.  Be  advised  now,  and  don't  put  yourself  in  a  pas- 
sion :  we  were  all  very  happy,  till  you  came. 

D  Rus.  Stand  away,  sir ;  have  I  not  reason  to  be  in  a 
passion  ? 

OFlag      Indeed,  honey,  and  you  have,  if  you  knew  all. 

L.  Rus.  [To  Charlotte.']  Come,  madam,  I  have  found 
out  your  haunts;  dispose  yourself  to  return  home  with  me- 
Young  man,  let  me  never  see  you  within  my  doors  again. 
And  you,  Captain  Dudley,  I  shall  report  your  behavior,  de- 
pend on't. 

Capt.  Dud.  Hold,  madam  ;  I  cannot  consent  to  lose  Miss 
Kusport's  company  this  evening,  and,  I  am  persuaded,  you 
won't  insist  upon  it.  It  is  an  unmotherly  action  to  inter- 
rupt your  daughter's  happiness  in  this  manner. 

L.  Rus.  Her  happiness,  truly,  upon  my  word  !  And  I 
suppose  it's  an  unmotherly  action  to  interrupt  her  ruin,  for 
what  but  ruin  must  it  be  to  marry  a  beggar  ?  I  think  my 
sister  had  a  proof  of  that,  sir.  when  she  made  choice  of 
you. 

Capt.  Dud.  Don't  be  too  lavish  of  your  spirits.  Lady 
Bu  sport. 

CFlag.  By  my  soul,  you'll  have  occasion  for  a  sip  of  the 
cordial  elixir,  byand-by.  Indeed,  madam,  Mr.  Dudley  can 
hardly  be  called  a  beggar. 

L.  Rus.  But,  it  appears  to  me,  Major  O'Flagherty,  that 
a  pair  of  colors  cannot  furnish  a  settlement  quite  sufficient 
for  the  heiress  of  Sir  Stephen  Busport. 

Char.  But  a  good  estate  in  aid  of  a  commission,  may  do 
something. 

3r> 


410  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

L  Rus  A  good  estate,  truly !  where  should  he  get  a 
good  estate,  pray  ? 

Capt.  Dud.  Why,  suppose  now,  a  worthy  old  genileman, 
on  his  death  bed,  should  have  taken  it  into  his  head  to  leave 
him  one? 

L  Rus      Hah  !  what's  that  you  say  ? 

OFlag.     Oho  !  you  begin  to  smell  a  plot,  do  you  ? 

Capt.  Dud.  Suppose  there  should  be  a  paper  in  the  world 
that  runs  thus :  "  I  do  hereby  give  and  bequeath  all  my  es- 
tates, real  and  personal,  to  Charles  Dudley,  son  of  my  late 
injured  and  neglected  daughter,  Louisa,"  ^c.  &c. 

L.  Rus.  Why,  I  am  thunderstruck!  By  what  contriv- 
ance, by  what  villainy,  did  you  get  possession  of"  that  paper? 

Ca'pt.  Dud.  There  was  no  villainy,  madam,  in  getting 
possession  of  it.  The  crime  lay  in  concealing  it,  not  in  bring- 
ing it  to  light. 

L.  Rus.     O,  that  cursed  lawyer,  Varland  ! 

OFlag.  You  may  say  that,  faith  ;  he  is  a  cursed  lawyer, 
and  a  cursed  piece  of  work  I  had,  to  get  the  paper  from  him  ; 
your  ladyship,  now.  was  to  have  paid  him  five  thousand 
pounds  for  it,  but  I  forced  him  to  give  it  me  of  his  own  ac- 
cord, for  nothing  at  all,  at  all. 

L.  Rus.  Is  it  you  that  has  done  this  ?  Am  I  foiled  by 
your  blundering  contrivances,  after  all  ? 

OFlag.  'Twas  a  blunder,  faith  j  but  as  natural  a  one  as 
if  it  had  been  done  on  purpose. 

Charles.  Come,  let  us  not  oppress  the  fallen.  Do  right, 
even  now,  and  you  shall  have  no  cause  to  complain. 

L.  Rus.  Am  I  become  an  object  of  your  pity,  then  ?  In- 
sufferable !  confusion  light  amongst  you  !  marry,  and  be 
wretched  !  let  me  never  see  you  more.     [Fxit.'] 

Char.  She  is  outrageous.  I  suffer  for  her,  and  blush  to 
see  her  thus  exposed. 

OFlag.  Blessing  of  St.  Patrick  upon  us  all !  'Tis  a 
night  of  wonderful  ups  and  downs.  But,  come  ;  even  those 
that  are  happy  may  grow  hungry,  and,  indeed,  I  wish  we 
were  all  fairly  set  down  to  supper,  and  there  was  an  end 
,>n't.     \Exeunl.] 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  411 


XXXM— FB.OM  THE  VILLAGE  LAWYER.— Anonymous. 

SCOUT,  A    VILLAGE    LAWYER SNARL,  A    MISERLY    MERCHANT 

MITTIMUS,     JUSTICE     OF     THE     PEACE SHEE  PEACE,      SNARL'S 

SHEPHERD CHARLES,     SNARL's     SON CLERK,     CONSTABLES 

&C. MRS.   SCOUT. 


Scene  1. — A  Room  in  Scout'8  House. 

[  Without. — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Scout^] 

Mrs.  Scout.     I  tell  you  it  shall  be — 

Scout.     Nay  !  nay  !  but,  my  dear,  now  ! 

Mrs.  S.  It  does  not  signify  talking — I  must  and  will 
have  it  so. 

Scout.     But  think,  my  dear,  how  ridiculous — 

Mrs.  S.  I  don't  care — I'm  resolved — I'll  no  longer  be  the 
laughing-stock  of  the  whole  country;  do  you  imagine  I'll — 
[E?iter  Mr.  Scout — Mrs.  Scout  following.'] 

Scout.  Nay  !  but  my  dear,  sweet  love,  that  indefatigable 
tongue  of  yours  would  out-talk  any  lawyer  in  the  kingdom  ; 
I  can  talk,  sometimes,  pretty  well,  myself;  but  1  stand  no 
chance  with  you.  Why,  you  would  out-din  the  whole  bar 
itself,  that  though  a  lawyer — 

Mrs.  S.  [Sneeri7ig.']  A  lawyer  !  No  one,  to  see  you  in 
this  trim,  would  imagine  you  had  ever  carried  on  anybody's 
suit  but  your  own.  Had  you  a  grain  of  spirit  left,  you 
might — 

Scout.  Spirit !  nay,  nay,  wife,  don't  complain  of  my  want 
of  sp  rit.  Have  I  not  convinced  you  I  had  too  much  spirit 
on  a  certain  occasion  ? 

Mrs.  S.  Very  fine,  indeed.  And  so  you  make  a  merit 
of  your  blunders. 

Scout.  Blunders,  indeed  !  I  think  I  made  a  blunder  in 
coming  here  Noi  a  single  job  have  I  got  since  I  have  been 
down  :  not  a  broken  head,  nor  a  quarrel  for  one  to  get  a  pen- 
ny by  :  and  hang  me,  if  I  don't  think  the  very  cattle  keep 
out  of  the  pound  on  purpose  to  spite  me  !  Now,  if  one  could 
put  on  the  appearance  of  business,  the  reality  will  follow  of 
course,  and  perhaps  something  may  turn  out — 

Mrs.  S.  Yes,  and  in  the  meantime,  your  poor  wife  may 
starve,  and  your  daughter  lose  the  opportunity  of  settling  her- 
self handsomely,  with  one  of  the  young  men  that  pay  their 


412  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

addresses  to  her.  -which  the  shabbiness  of  your  appearance 
frightens  away. 

^cout.  Why,  to  be  sure,  I  am  shabby  enough,  of  all  con 
science,  and  cannot,  with  any  propriety,  make  my  appear 
ance  in  public.  Let  me  see — I  have  it ;  I'll  go  and  purchase 
a  suit  of  clothes  directly. 

Mrs.  S.  Purchase  a  suit  of  clothes,  without  a  shilling  in 
your  pocket? 

Scout.  0,  my  dear,  that's  nothing  at  all :  most  fashion- 
able suits  are  purchased  that  way.  Let  me  see — what  color 
shall  I  choose  ?  Shall  it  be  a  brown — a  gray — a  bat's  wing 
— or — 

Mrs.  S.  Oh!  never  mind  the  color,  so  you  can  only  find 
somebody  silly  enough  to  let  you  have  the  cloth. 

Scout.  0,  I'll  warrant  you.  Let  me  see,  now — there's 
neighbor  Snarl,  that  lives  over  the  way  ;  he  keeps  a  large 
assortment  of  colors  :  I'll  hum  him  out  of  a  suit. 

Mrs.  S.  Mr.  Snarl  ! — Take  care  what  ;you  do  there,  hus- 
band ;  his  son,  Charles,  is  in  love  with  our  Harriet,  and 
would  have  married  her  before  now,  but  for  fear  of  his  fa- 
ther's anger.  I  would  not  for  the  world  disappoint  the  girl's 
hopes. 

Scout.  Well  !  well  !  step  in  and  bring  my  gown  and 
band — it  will,  at  least,  make  me  have  a  better  appearance, 
[exit  Mrs.  Scout.]  by  hiding  these  rags.  Come,  wife,  make 
haste.     Come,  what  a  long  time  you  are 

[Re-enter  Mrs.  Scout,  with  the  gotvn  and  bag'] 

Mrs.  S.     Why,  I  brought  it  as  soon  as  I  could. 

Scout.  Come,  help  me  on  with  it ; — take  care  what  you 
are  about.  See  what  a  large  hole  here  is.  You  sit  all  day 
with  your  hands  before  you  ;  and  I  think  you  might  have 
mended  it. 

Mrs.  S.     I'll  mend  it  when  you  come  back. 

Scout.  There — there — now  I  shall  do  very  well !  And 
let  me  tell  you,  wife,  I  am  not  the  only  lawyer  who  wears  a 
gown  to  cover  a  shabby  suit.     [Exeunt.'] 

Scene  2. — Snarl's  shop — a  counter,  several  pieces  of  cloth,  flannel, 
baize,  &c.,  four  yards  iron-gray  broadcloth,  tailor's  pattern-book,  shears, 
yard-measure,  table,  chair,  side  of  counter,  shop-stool. 

[Enter  Snarl,  Charles  folloiaing.] 
Snarl.     Charles  have  you  been  looking  out  for  anothei 
shepherd,  as  I  told  you  ? 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  413 

Charles.     No,  sir  :   T  think  you  have  got  a  very  good  one. 

Snarl.  No  such  thing — I  tell  you  that  that  Sheepface  is 
a  rogue  ;  here  he  has  lived  with  nie  only  a  fortnight,  and 
here  are  missing  fourteen  of  my  best  wethers. 

Char.  Consider,  sir,  what  havoc  such  a  disorder  makes 
in  a  little  time. 

Snarl.  Yes  yes.  I  have  considered,  and  I  knov/  pretty 
well  by  this  time.  I  have  long  suspected  him,  and  last  night 
I  caught  him  in  the  very  act,  killing  one  of  my  fattest  weth- 
ers :  and  I  am  determined  to  have  him  up  before  Justice 
Mittimus  this  day  ; — but  reach  me  my  book,  and  let  me 
look  over  the  account  of  my  stock  ;  perhaps  there  may  be 
more  missing. 

Char.     There  it  is,  sir.     [Gives  a?i  accoum  bou/c] 

Snarl  [Sits  doivn.']  And  if  neighbor  Gripe  calls,  tell 
him  I  want  to  see  him  about  this  rascal  Sheepface.  Let  me 
see — twelve  times  ten  is — 

[  Charles  is  going,  and  meets  Sheepface^ 

Char.  Sheepface,  my  father  has  discovered  all ;  do  the 
best  you  can  ;  beware  of  saying  too  much.     [Exit.\ 

Sheepface.  I  understand — don't  fear  me.  Save  you,  good 
master  Snarl 

Snarl.  What !  you  rascal  !  are  you  here  ?  How  dare 
you  appear  before  me  after  the  trick  yon  have  played  me  ? 

Sheep.  Only  to  tell  you  I've  been  with  neighbor  Gripe, 
the  constable,  who  has  been  speaking  to  me  about  sheep- 
stealing.  Justice  Mittimus,  your  honor,  and  a  power  of  things ; 
so  I  said  to  myself  as  how  I  would  not  make  it  a  secret  any 
longer  with  your  worship. 

Snarl.  Why,  fellow,  this  affected  simplicity  won't  serve 
your  purpose.  Did  not  I  catch  you  last  night  killing  one 
of  my  fattest  wethers  'I 

Sheep.     Only  to  keep  it  from  dying,  by  my  feckins  ! 

Snarl.     To  keep  it  from  dying  ! 

Sheep.  Of  the  rot,  an'  please  your  sweet  worship.  It's 
a  way  I  learnt  of  our  doctor  in  the  parish .  he  cures  most 
of  his  patients  the  same  way. 

Snarl.  The  doctor,  ha!  The  doctors  have  a  license  to 
kill  from  the  college;  but  you  have  none,  I  believe.  Why, 
there  was  not  such  a  breed  in  all  the  country  for  Spanish 
wool ! 

Sheep.     Please  your  worship,  satisfy  yourself  with  the 
blows  you  gave  me,  and  make  matters  up,  if  it  be  your 
worship's  good  will  and  pleasure. 
35* 


414  ITEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Snarl.  But  'tis  not  my  good  will  and  pleasure :  my  good 
will  and  pleasure  is  to  see  you  hanged,  you  rascal. 

She£p.  Oh!  no;  don't  hang  me!  Consider,  that  would 
be  the  death  of  me  !  Besides,  your  worship,  I  was  only 
married  yesterday : — leave  me  alone  for  a  week  or  two.  and 
who  knows  but,  by  that  time,  I  may  save  your  worship  the 
trouble. 

SnoA-l.  No,  no,  the  gallows  will  be  the  best  way  at  first, 
and  every  bit  as  sure. 

Sheep.  Heaven  give  you  the  luck  of  it  then,  good  master 
Snarl.  Since  it  must  be  so.  I  must  go  seek  a  lawyer,  I  find, 
or  might  will  prevail  over  right.     [Exit  SJieepface.^ 

Snarl.  Six  times  twelve  is  seventy-two, — that  is  right ; 
then  nine  times  seven  is — 

[E^Uer  Scout.'] 

Scout  Egad.  I  have  nicked  it  nicely !  This  was  very 
lucky  to  catch  him  alone.  That  seems  to  be  a  pretty  piece 
of  cloth,  and  will  just  suit  me.  [Aside.]  Good  morning  to 
you,  Mr.  Snarl. 

Snarl     Oh  !  what !  neighbor  Gripe  !  walk  in. 

Scout.     No,  it's  I,  your  neighbor  Scout. 

Snarl  I  am  my  neighbor  Scout's  most  obedient ;  but  I 
have  no  business  with  him  at  present  that  I  know  of 

Scout.  [Aside.]  I'll  make  you  tell  a  different  story  pres- 
ently, or  I  am  much  mistaken.  I  called  to  settle  a  little  ac- 
count. 

Snarl     I  have  no  account  to  settle  with  anybody. 

Scout.     There's  a  small  balance  of  fifty  pounds — 

Snarl  I  know  nothing  at  all  about  it;  I  don't  owe  any 
man  a  farthing  in  the  world. 

Scout.  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  myself  [Aside.] 
Why,  sir,  looking  over  my  father's  accounts,  I  see  he  stands 
indebted  to  you  fifty  pounds ;  and  I,  as  an  honest  man,  am 
come  to  pay  it. 

Sneer  I  [Turrmtg  round^  rises,  and  shakes  him  hy  the 
hand.]  How  do  you  do,  neighbor  Scout?  How  do  you 
do  ?     I'm  glad  to  see  you  ! 

Scout.     Very  well.  I  thank  you,  sir.     Hew  do  you  do? 

Snarl.     I  think  you  live  in  our  village  here  ? 

Scout.     Yes,  sir,  I  do. 

Snarl.     Pray,  be  seated. 

Scout.     By  no  means  ;  I  fear  I  disturb  you. 

Snarl  Oh  !  no,  not  at  all ;  pray,  sit  down.  I  insist 
upon  it 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING  415 

Scout.  x\h !  sir,  if  everybody  was  of  my  principle,  I 
should  be  a  deal  richer  than  I  am :  I  cannot  bear  to  be  in 
anybody's  debt. 

'Snad.  Why,  egad  !  the  generality  of  people  bear  it  very 
Vveil. 

Scout.  Very  true,  sir;  very  true:  when  would  you 
IiKe  to  receive  this  money  ?  for  I'm  impatient  to  pay  every- 
body. 

Snarl,  Why,  when  you  please.  No  time  like  the  time 
present. 

Scout.  Very  true  ;  I  have  it  told  out  at  home  ;  but  as  I 
only  hold  iiiy  father's  effects  in  trust  for  my  daughter  Har- 
riet, for  form's  sake,  you  know,  it  will  be  proper  to  have  some 
of  the  other  guardians  present  at  the  time  of  payment. 

Snarl.  Very  true  ;  it  is  so,  indeed  !  Well,  as  soon  as 
you  please. 

Scout.  What  do  you  think  of  three  o'clock  this  after- 
noon ? 

Snarl.     A  very  good  time. 

Scout.  And,  egad  !  it  happens  very  lucky — I've  got 
a  very  fine  goose,  sent  me  by  a  client  from  Norfolk,  and 
you  shall  come  and  dine  with  me ; — are  you  fond  of 
goose  1 

Snarl.     Very.     It's  my  favorite  dish. 

Scout.  That's  very  lucky.  Don't  forget  to  come.  I  think 
you  do  a  deal  of  business  here — more  than  all  the  rest  of 
the  trade  around  the  country. 

Snarl.     Pretty  well ;  I  can't  complain. 

Scout.  And  Mrs.  Scout  will  dress  the  goose  by  a  valua- 
ble receipt  left  her  by  her  great  uncle.  Alderman  Dumpling. 
Do  you  like  sage  and  onion  ? 

Snarl.     Very  much,  indeed. 

Scout.  You  shall  have  it  so.  Why,  you  have  such  an 
engaging  way  with  you,  that  people  take  more  pleasure 
in  paying  you  money  than  in  receiving  it  from  other  peo- 
ple. 

Snarl.     Ah.  sir,  you  flatter  me  ! 

Scout.  Not  at  all.  Egad  !  now  I  recollect.  I  promised 
Mrs.  Scout  you  should  have  my  custom  ;  and  I  don't  care  it 
I  take  a  coat  to  begin  with. 

Snarl.  Pray,  sir.  look  over  my  patterns  :  here's  a  variety 
of  colors. 

Scout.  This  seems  to  be  a  pretty  piece  of  cloth.  {Feel- 
ing tfie  cloth  that  lies  on  the  counter. '\ 


416  NKW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Snarl     Very  fine,  and  good  !     It  is  iron  gray. 

Scout.     Don't  you  remember  our  going  to  school? 

Snarl     What !  along  with  Old  Iron  Fist  ? 

Scout.  The  same  You  was  reckoned  the  prettiest  boy 
in  the  whole  school. 

Snarl  Yes ;  my  mother  said  I  always  was  a  pretty 
boy. 

Scout.     This  cloth  feels  very  smooth  and  fine. 

Snarl  Right  Spanish  wool,  I  assure  you.  Let  me  send 
your  quantity  to  your  house. 

Scout.  Stop  !  stop  !  Pay  as  you  go,  pay  as  you  go ; 
that  is  always  my  maxim. 

Snarl  And,  egad,  a  very  good  maxim  'tis  !  I  wish  all 
my  customers  made  use  of  the  same. 

Scout.  Don't  you  remember  the  tricks  you  used  to  play 
the  curate  ? 

Snarl     Yes,  very  well. 

Scout.  Ay,  you  \vas  always  full  of  mischief  Wnat  ir 
this  cloth  a  yard  1 

Snarl  Why,  to  anybody  else  it  shc'ild  oeniueteen  shill- 
lings  and  sixpence  ;  but — 

Scout.     Now  you  are  going  to  favor  me. 

Snarl  No,  I  am  not ;  only  as  you  are  a  particular  friend, 
I  won't  charge  you  but  nineteen  ;  and,  luckily,  here  is  just 
your  quantity  cut  ofT 

Scout.     That  is  lucky :  I'll  take  it  home  with  me. 

Snarl     By  no  means. — My  boy — 

Scout.  Why  would  you  take  the  poor  boy  from  his 
work  ?     I  don't  mind  carrying  it  myself 

Snarl  But  let  me  measure  it ;  perhaps  there  may  be 
some  mistake. 

Scout.     No  mistake ;  d'ye  think  I  doubt  your  word  ? 

Snarl     But  the  price  ? 

Scout.  Never  mind  that:  I  leave  it  enthely  to  you. 
Well,  good  morning;  don't  forget  the  goose ;  you'll  be  sure 
to  be  there  time  enough  to  dine,  before  you  receive  your 
money.     Good  morning— don't  forget.     \_Exit.\ 

Snarl  Egad  !  but  he  has  carried  off  my  cloth — but 
he'll  pay.  0  yes,  he  11  pay :  for  he  must  be  a  very  honest 
man,  or  he  never  would  have  told  me  of  the  fifty  pounds,, 
and  invite  me  to  dine  off  the  goose  into  the  bargain.  I  am 
sorry  I  cheated  him  in  the  cloth.  But  no  matter;  it  is  the 
way  I  got  all  my  money.     \^Exit.^ 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  417 

Scene  3.— A  Wood-Cottage. 

[Enter  Scout  and  Sheepface.] 

Scout.  Egad,  I  think  I  have  made  a  good  morning's 
work  !  This  cloth  will  enable  me  to  make  a  genteel  ap- 
pearance: — but  who  have  we  here?  Sure,  T  know  that 
face. 

Sheep.  Sarvant,  sir.  I  am  come  to  ask  your  worship  to 
stand  my  friend  against  a — his  worship,  my  master. 

Scout.  What,  the  rich  farmer  here  that  lives  in  the 
neighborhood  ? 

Sheep.  Yes.  yes  — he  lives  in  the  neighborhood,  sure 
enough; — and  if  you  will  stand  my  friend,  you  shall  be  paid 
to  your  heart's  content. 

Sc'out.  Ay  I  now  you  speak  to  the  purpose : — come,  you 
must  tell  me  how  it  was.  < 

Sheep.  Why,  you  must  know,  my  master  gives  me  but 
small  wages — very  small  wages  indeed  !  So  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  do  a  little  business  on  my  own  account,  and 
so  make  myself  amends  without  any  damage  to  him,  with 
an  honest  neighbor  of  mine — a  little  bit  of  a  butcher  by 
trade. 

Scout.  Well,  but  what  business  can  you  have  to  do  with 
him? 

Sheep.  Why,  saving  your  worship's  presence,  I  hinders 
the  sheep  from  dying  of  the  rot. 

Scout.     Ah  ! — how  do  you  contrive  that? 

Sheep.     I  cuts  their  throats  before  it  comes  to  them. 

Scout.  What !  I  suppose,  then,  your  master  thinks  you 
kill  his  sheep  for  the  sake  of  selling  their  carcasses  ? 

Sheep.  Yes  ;  and  I  cannot  beat  it  out  of  his  head  for  the 
soul  of  me. 

Scout.  Well,  then,  you  must  tell  me  all  the  particulars 
about  it.  Relate  every  circumstance,  and  don't  hide  a  single 
Item. 

Sheep.  Why,  then,  sir,  you  must  know,  that  last  night, 
as  I  was  going  down, — must  I  tell  the  truth  ? 

Scout.  Yes,  yes:  you  must  tell  the  truth  here,  or  we 
shall  not  be  able  to  lie  to  the  purpose  anywhere  else. 

Sheep.  Well,  then,  last  night,  after  I  was  married,  hav- 
ing a  little  leisure  time  upon  my  hands,  I  goes  down  to  our 
pen  ;  and,  as  I  was  musing  on,  I  don't  know  what,  out  I 
takes  my  knife,  and  happening  by  mere  accident,  saving 
your  worship's  presence,  to  put  it  under  the  throat  of  one  of 
2C 


118  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

the  fattest  wethers — I  don't  know  how  it  came  about,  but  1 
had  not  been  long  there,  before  the  wether  died,  and  all  of  a 
sudden,  as  a  body  may  say. 

Scout.  What !  and  somebody  was  looking  on  all  the 
while  ? 

Sheep,  Yes,  master,  from  behind  the  hedge,  and  would 
have  it,  it  died  all  along  with  me ;  and  so,  you  see,  he  laid 
a  shower  of  blows  on  me  ;  but  I  hope  your  worship  will 
stand  my  friend,  and  not  let  me  lose  the  fruits  of  my  honest 
labors — all  at  once. 

Scout.  Why,  there  are  two  ways  of  settling  this  business  ; 
and  one  is,  I  think,  to  be  done  without  putting  you  to  any 
expense. 

Sheep.     Let's  try  that  first,  by  all  means. 

Scout.  You  have  scraped  up  something  in  your  master's 
service. 

Sheep.     I  have  been  up  late  and  early  for  it,  sir. 

Scout.  1  suppose  you  have  taken  care  to  have  your  sav- 
ings all  in  hard  cash  % 

Sheep.     Yes,  sir. 

Scout.  Well,  then,  when  you  go  home,  take  it  and  hide 
it  in  the  safest  place  you  can  find. 

Sheep.     Yes,  sir,  that  I'll  do. 

Scout.  I'll  take  care  your  master  shall  pay  all  costs  and 
charges. 

Sheep.     Ay,  so  he  ought ;  he  can  afford  it. 

Scout.     It  shall  be  nothing  out  of  your  pocket. 

Sheep.     That's  just  as  I  would  have  it. 

Scout.  He'll  have  all  the  trouble  and  expense  of  bringing 
you  to  trial,  and,  after  that,  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  hanged. 

SJieep.     Let's  take  the  other  way. 

Scout.  Well,  let  me  see :  I  suppose  he'll  take  out  a  war- 
rant against  you,  and  have  you  taken  before  Justice  Mit- 
timus. 

Sheep.     So  I  understand. 

Scout.  I  think  the  justice's  credulity  is  easily  imposed 
on;  so,  when  you  are  ordered  before  him,  I'll  attend;  and 
to  all  the  questions  that  you  are  asked,  answer  nothing,  but 
imitate  the  voice  of  the  lambs,  when  they  bleat  after  the 
ewes.     You  can  speak  that  dialect. 

Sfieep.     It's  my  mother  tongue. 

Scout.  But  if  I  bring  you  olear  off,  I  expect  to  be  very 
well  paid  for  this. 

Sheep.     So  you  shall ;  I'll  pay  you  to  your  heart's  content 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  419 

Scout.     Be  sure  you  answer  nothing  but  baa ! 

Sheep.     Baa ! 

Scout.  Ay  !  that  will  do  very  well :  be  sure  you  stick  to 
that. 

Sheep.     Yes,  your  worship,  never  fear  I.     What  trouble 
a  body  has  to  keep  one's  own  in  this  world.     [^Exeiv7it .^ 
[Enter  Snarl.'] 

Snarl.  Ay,  ay  ;  that's  my  neighbor  Scout's  house :  he  is 
just  come  home,  to  give  orders  about  the  dinner,  I  warrant. — 
Egad.  I  think  I  shall  make  a  good  day's  work  :  what  with 
the  fifty  pounds  his  father  owed  mine,  which,  by-the-by,  I 
know  nothing  at  all  about,  and  the  money  for  the  cloth, 
and  the  goose  that  is  to  be  dressed  by  a  famous  receipt  of 
Alderman  Dumpling's — egad,  I  believe  they  are  dressing  it 
now. — I'll  in,  and  see  what  is  going  forward.     \^Exit.] 

Scene  4. — A  room  in  Scout's  House.     An  old  couch,  an  easy -chair,  cen- 
ter-table, with  basins,  viols,  <tc. 

Scout.  Wife,  wife — come  along — T  think  I  hear  Snarl  at 
the  door ;  come  to  your  place,  and  mind  your  cue.  [^Sits 
down. 

Mrs.  S.  Never  fear  me — I  warrant  I  shall  make  an  ex- 
cellent nurse. 

Scout.     Ha !  ha !     I  wonder  how  Snarl  will  relish  the 
goose  ?     But  hark  !  he  is  certainly  coming. 
[  Enter  Snarl  ] 

Snarl.  Where  is  my  friend,  Mr.  Scout  ?  Is  the  goose  a 
dressing  ? 

Scout.  Wife,  wife — here  comes  the  doctor — he  brings  me 
the  cooling  mixture — the  cooling  mixture  ! 

Snarl.     The  cooling  mixture  ! 

Mrs.  S.  Oh,  sir  !  I  hope  you  have  brought  something  for 
my  poor  husband  ;  he  has  been  confined  to  his  room,  and  has 
not  been  out  this  fortnight ! 

Snarl.     Not  out  of  his  room  this  fortnight ! 

Mrs.S.  No.  sir;  this  day  fortnight,  of  all  the  good  days 
in  the  year,  he  was  seized  with  a  lunacy  fit  and  has  not  been 
out  of  doors  since  ! 

Snarl.  Why,  woman  !  What  are  you  talking  about  ? — 
Why,  he  came  to  my  shop  this  morning  and,  by  the  same 
token,  he  bought  four  yards  of  iron  gray  cloth,  and  I  am 
'^ome  for  my  money. 

Mrs.S.     This  mornino"  I 


420 


NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 


Snarl  This  mornmg  ,  and  invited  me  to  dine  with  him 
to  day  off  a  goose,  and  to  receive  fifty  pounds  which  his  fa- 
ther owed  mine — I'll  speak  to  him.  [Cro.sses.]  llow  do 
you  do,  good  Mr.  Scout  / 

Scout.     Oh,  how  d'ye  do,  good  Mr.  Drench  ? 

Snarl.     Good  Mr.  Drench  ! 

Mrs.  S.     He  takes  you  for  the  doctor,  Mr.  Drench. 

■Scout.  Wife, — wife,  keep  the  doctor  from  me,  and  a  fig 
for  the  disease. 

Mrs.  S.  For  heaven- s  sake,  sir,  if  you  can't  relieve  him, 
don't  torment  him. 

Snarl.  Hold  your  tongue,  woman.  I  want  my  cloth  or 
my  money.     Mr.  Scout !  Mr.  Scout ! 

Scout.  See  !  see  !  see  !  There  are  three  nice  butterflies  ; 
there  they  fly  ;  there  they  fly  !  they  fly  !  [Jumps  after  them,] 
with  bat  wings — I've  catched  them — I  have  them — Tally-ho, 
tally-ho. — Oh  !  oh  !  oh  !     [Falls  in  the  chair.] 

Snarl.  Butterflies! — Hang  me  if  I  can  see  any.  I  wish 
to  see  my  cloth. 

Scout.  [Jumps  on  the  chair.]  My  lord,  and  gentlemen 
of  the  jury,  my  client,  Sir  Hugh  Witherington,  charges  the 
defendant,  Mr.  Mungummery,  that  is,  moreover,  nevertheless, 
as  shall  appear,  as — [Spits  at  him. — Jumps  down  and 
dances.]  Dol  de  rol,*de  lol !  Oh!  oh!  oh!  [Ju7nps  cross- 
cegged  on  the  chair.] 


Snarl     There,  now.  he's  fancying  himself  a  tailor,  and  at 
work  upon  my  cloth. 


COMTC     AND    AMUSINO.  121 

Mrs.  S.     Do,  pray,  sir,  leave  him,  and  don't  torment  him. 

Snarl.  I  won't  leave  him  without  my  money.  See  he 
is  getting  better.  I'il  speak  to  him  again.  How  do  you  do, 
neighbor  Scout? 

Scout.  How  d'ye  do,  Mr.  Snarl  ?  I  am  glad  to  see  you ; 
I  hope  you  are  very  well.  My  dear,  here  is  Mr.  Snarl  come 
to  see  us 

Snarl.    There  !  there  !  there  !  he  knows  me :  he  knows  m§. 

Scout.  Oh,  Mr.  Snarl  I  beg  a  thousand  pardons  ;  I  con- 
fess I  have  been  very  unkind :  but  I  hope  you'll  excuse  me 
coming  to  see  you.  I  have  never  called  on  you  since  I  came 
to  live  in  this  part  of  the  country. 

Snarl.  Never  called  on  me  !  Oh,  the  mischief,  I  shall 
never  get  my  cloth  again.  Why.  man.  you  called  on  me 
this  morning,  and  bought  four  yards  of  iron -gray  cloth,  and 
1  am  come  for  my  money — besides  fifty  pounds  your  father 
owed  mine.  Ay,  you  may  shake  your  head  ;  but  hang  me, 
if  I  go  out  of  the  house  without  it. 

Scout.  Say  you  so?  then  I'll  try  something  else,  [^si^e.] 
Wife!  wife!  wife!  get  up — softly!  softly!  get  up !  Don't 
lie  snoring  there:  there's  thieves  in  the  house.  No.  no; 
second  thoughts  are  best ;  be  still  while  I  fetch  my  gun  and 
shoot  them.  Cover  yourself  up  close  ;  I'll  shoot  them  !  shoot 
them  !  shoot  them  !     [Exit.'] 

Snarl.  Thieves  in  the  house,  did  he  say?  Egad,  who 
knows  but,  in  his  mad  tricks,  he  may  shoot  me  for  a 
thief?  I'll  get  out  of  his  way,  and  not  stay  with  a  mad- 
man. 

\ Enter  Scout,  with  a  birch  broom,  and  presents  it  at  hi/m^ 
~  Scout.    Boh!    [Exit  Snarl.]    Victoria!  Victoria!     Ha! 
ha!  ha!     Well,  wife,  I  must  say  you  are  an  honor  to  the 
fair  sex. 

Mrs.  S.  Ha!  ha!  The  good  Mr.  Snarl,  how  he  must 
have  relished  his  favorite  dish,  with  the  "  sage  and  onions." 

[Exeunt. 1 

Scene  5. — Justice's  Office. — A  covered  arm-chair  for  Mittimus,  raised 
on  two  steps. — Table,  with  pens,  ink,  paper,  books,  &c. — Stool  for  Clerk, 
and  chair  for  Scout,  at  table. 

[Justice  Miitimtis  discovered,  sitting. —  Clerks,  S)-c.] 
Justice.     So,  the  court  being  assembled,  the  parties  may 
appear. 

[  Enter  Snarl,  Scout,  and  Sheepface  with  Constables,  SfC.'\ 
Just.     Where  is  your  lawyer,  neighbor  Snarl  ? 


422  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Snar/.  I  am  my  own  lawyer ;  I  shall  employ  nobody — 
that  would  cost  more  money. 

Scout.  Why,  how  now,  you  rascal,  [Seeing  Snarl  as  tlif 
plaintiff^  have  you  imposed  upon  me?  What's  the  mean- 
ing- of  all  this  ?     Is  that  the  plaintiff? 

Skeep.  [Aside  to  Scout.]  Yes,  that's  his  honor,  my  good 
master. 

Scout.  0,  fury  I  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  must  stay  and 
brazen  it  out!  If  I  sneak  out  of  court,  it  will  cause  sus- 
picion.    [Aside.] 

Just.     Come,  neighbor  Snarl,  begin. 

Snarl.     Well,  then,  that  thief,  there — 

Just.     No  abuse  ! — No  abuse  ! 

Snarl.  Well,  then,  I  say.  that  rascal,  my  shepherd — no — 
do  my  eyes  deceive  me  ? — Sure  that  is — yes — it  must  be  he : 
if  I  had  not  left  him  very  bad,  I  could  have  sworn — yes, 
yes,  'tis  he — and  that  other  rascal  came  to  my  shop  and 
bought — no,  no — I  don't  mean  so  ; — that  rascal  there  has 
killed  fourteen  of  my  fattest  wethers. — What  answer  do  you 
make  to  that  ? 

Scout.     I  deny  the  fact. 

Snarl.     What  is  become  of  them,  then  ? 

Scout.     They  did  die  of  the  rot. 

Snarl.     'Tis  he — his  voice,  too. 

Jusl.     W^hat  proof  have  you  got  ? 

Snarl.  Why,  this  morning  he  came  to  my  house. — No, 
no, — I  mean,  I  went  down  last  night  to  the  pens,  having 
long  suspected  him — 'tis  he  !  'tis  he  ! — and  he  began  a  long 
story  about  fifty  pounds. — No,  no,  I  don't  mean  that — and 
there  I  caught  him  in  the  very  act. 

Scout.     That  remains  to  be  proved. 

Snarl.     Yes,  I  will  swear  it  is  the  very  man. 

Just.  Why,  this  is  the  very  man  ;  but  is  it  certain  that 
your  wethers  died  of  the  rot  ?  What  answer  do  you  make 
to  that  ? 

Snarl.  Why,  I  tell  you,  he  came  this  very  morning,  and, 
after  talking  some  time,  makes  no  more  to  do  than  carries 
off  four  yards  of  it. 

Just.     Four  yards  of  your  wethers  ? 

Snarl.  No,  no,  four  yards  of  my  cloth;  I  mean  that 
other  thief — that  other,  there. 

Just.     What  other  ?     What  other,  neighbor  Snarl  ? 

^out.     Why.  he's  mad   an'  please  your  worship. 

Just.     Truly   t  think  so,  too; — hark  ye,  neighbor  Snarl, 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  423 

not  all  the  justices  in  the  county — no,  nor  their  clerks, 
either,  can  make  anything-  of  your  evidence.  Stick  to  your 
wethers  !  Stick  to  your  wethers  or  I  must  release  the  pris- 
oner; but,  however.  I  believe  it  will  be  the  shortest  way  to 
examine  him  myself.  Come  here,  my  good  fellow.  [^Sheeji- 
face  crosses  to  Justice.]  Hold  up. your  head,  don't  be  fright- 
ened, tell  me  your  name. 

Sheep.     Baa ! 

Snarl.  It  is  a  lie  ! — It  is  a  lie  ! — His  name  is  Sheep- 
face. 

Just.  Well,  well,  Sheepface  or  Baa,  no  matter  for  the 
name.  Did  Mr.  Snarl  give  you  in  charge  fourscore  sheep, 
Sheepface  ? 

Sheep.     Baa ! 

Just.  I  say.  did  Mr.  Snarl  catch  you  in  the  night,  killing 
one  of  his  fattest  wethers? 

Sheep.     Baa  I 

Just.     What  does  he  mean  by  baa? 

Scout.  Please  your  worship,  the  blows  he  gave  this  poor 
fellow  on  the  head  have  so  affected  his  senses,  he  can  say 
nothing  else;  he  is  to  be  trepanned  as  soon,  as  the  court 
breaks  up ;  and  the  doctors  say,  it  is  the  whole  Materia 
Medica  against  a  dose  of  jalap,  he  never  recovers. 

Just.  But  the  act,  and  in  that  provided,  forbids  all  blows, 
particularly  on  the  head. 

Snarl.  It  was  dark,  and,  when  I  strike,  I  never  mind 
where  the  blow  falls. 

Scout.     A  voluntary  confession,  a  voluntary  confession! 

Just.  [Rising  and  coming  forward,  j  A  voluntary  con- 
fession, indeed.  Release  the  prisoner  ;  I  find  no  cause  of 
complaint  against  him.     [Exeunt  Constables^ 

Snarl.  No  cause  of  complaint  against  him  !  You  are  a 
pretty  justice,  indeed : — one  kills  my  sheep,  and  the  other 
pays  me  with  Sir  Hugh  Witherington,  and  then  you  see  no 
cause  of  complaint  against  him. 

Just.     Not  I,  truly. 

Snarl.  A  pretty  day's  work  I  have  made,  indeed : — a 
suit  ot  law.  and  a  suit  of  iron-gray  cloth,  both  carried 
agamst  me ;  but  as  for  you,  Mr.  Lawyer,  we  shall  meet 
again.     [Exit  Snarl] 

Just.  0  fie,  neighbor  Snarl,  you  are  to  blame;  very 
much  to  blame,  indeed. 

Scout.  Come,  now  it  is  all  over,  go  and  thank  his  wor- 
ship 


424 


NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 


Sheep.     Baa  !  baa  !  baa  ! 

Just.  Enough,  enough,  my  good  fellow  ;  fake  care  you 
do  not  catch  cold  in  your  head  ;  go  and  get  trepanned,  and 
take  care  of  yourself,  Sheepface. 

Sheep.     Baa ! 

Just.     Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow  !     [Exit  Jiist.] 

Scout.  Bravo,  my  boy !  You  have  acted  your  part 
admirably,  and  I  think  I  did  very  well  to  bring  you  off  so 
cleverly ;  and  now  I  make  no  doubt,  but,  as  you  are  a  very 
honest  fellow,  you'll  pay  me  as  generously  as  you  promised. 

Sheep.     Baa ! 

Scout.  Ay,  very  well,  very  well,  indeed— you  did  that 
very  well  just  now,  but  there's  no  occasion  to  have  it  over 
any  more.  I'm  talking  about  my  fee.  you  know,  Sheep- 
face  !  Yes,  yes,  I  tell  you  it  was  very  well  done,  but  at  this 
time,  you  know,  my  fee  is  the  question. 

Sheep.     Baa  !  baa  ! 

Scout.  How's  this  !  am  I  laughed  at  ?  Pay  me  directly, 
you  rascal,  or  I'll  make  you  rue  it;  I'll  teach  you  to  try  to 
cheat  a  lawyer,  that  lives  by  cheating  others.     I'll — 

Sheep.     Baa ! 
■    Scout.     What !  again  !  braved  by  a  mongrel  cur.  a  bleat- 
ing— 

Sheep.     Baa ! 

Scout.  Out  of  my  sight !  or  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your 
dog's  skin,  you  sheep  stealing  scoundrel:  would  you  cheat 
one  that  has  cheated  hundreds  ?  Get  home  to  your  hiding 
place ! 

Baa! 


Popolin.".    Ugh  !  ugh  !  I've  swallowed  the  wrong  stuff! 

The  Sleeping  Drau^fit. 


COMIC    AND    AMDSINO.  425 


XXXVIII.— FROM  FORTUNE'S  FROJAC.—Allingham. 

ROBIN    ROUGHHEAD SNACKS VILLAGERS FRANK DOLLY — 

MARGERY. 

Scene  1. — Hall  in  the  Castle. 

\_Enter  Snacks,  speaking.] 

Snacks.  A  letter  for  me  by  express !  What  can  it  be 
about?  Something  of  great  consequence  from  my  lord,  I 
suppose.  But  come,  let  me  see  what  the  letter  says.  [Reads.l 
"  Sir,  this  is  to  inform  you  that  my  Lord  Lackwit  died — an 
heir  to  his  estate — his  lordship  never  acknowledged  her  as 
his  wife — son  called  Robin  Roughhead — Robin  is  the  legal 
heir  to  the  estate — to  put  him  in  immediate  possession,  ac- 
cording to  his  lordship's  last  will  and  testament. 
''  Yours  to  command, 

"  Kit  Codicjl.  AWt/  at  Law." 

Here's  a  catastrophe !  Robin  Roughhead  a  lord  !  My 
stewardship  has  done  pretty  well  for  me  already,  but  I  think 
T  shall  make  it  do  better  now.  I  know  this  Robin  very 
well:  he's  over-cunning,  I'm  afraid;  but  I'll  tickle  him. 
He  shall  marry  my  daughter — then  I  can  do  as  I  please. 
To  be  sure.  I  have  given  my  promise  to  Rattle  ;  but  what  of 
that?  he  hasn't  got  it  under  my  hand.  Inhink  I  had  better 
tell  Robin  this  news  at  once :  it  will  make  him  mad — and 
then  I  shall  do  as  I  please  with  him.  Ay,  ay,  I'll  go.  How 
unfortunate  that  I  did  not  make  friends  with  him  before ! 
He  has  no  great  reason  to  like  me ;  I  never  gave  him  any- 
thing but  hard  words.     [Exit.] 

Scene  2. — A  Field. 

[Robin  Roughhead  discovered  raking  hay] 
Robin.  Ah  !  work,  work,  work !  all  day  long,  and  no 
such  thing  as  stopping  a  moment  to  rest !  for  there's  old 
Snacks,  the  steward,  always  upon  the  lookout:  and  if  he 
sees  one,  slap  he  has  it  down  in  his  book,  and  then  there's 
sixpence  gone,  plump.  [Comes forivard]  I  do  hate  that 
old  chap,  and  that's  the  truth  on't.  Now  if  I  was  lord  of 
this  place.  I'd  make  one  rule — there  should  be  no  such  thing 
as  work  j  it  should  be  one  long  holiday  all  the  year  round. 
3(r 


426  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

Your  great  folks  have  strange  whims  in  their  heads,  that's 
for  sartin.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  'urn.  not  I.  Now 
there's  all  yon  great  park  there,  kept  for  his  lordship  to  look 
at.  and  his  lordship  has  not  seen  it  these  twelve  years. 
Ah  !  if  it  was  mine.  I'd  let  all  the  villagers  turn  their  cows 
in  there,  and  it  should  not  cost  'em  a  farthing;  then  as  the 
parson  said  last  Sunday,  I  should  be  as  rich  as  any  in  the 
land,  for  I  should  have  the  blessings  of  the  poor.  Dang  it! 
here  comes  Snacks.  Now  I  shall  get  a  fine  jobation.  I  sup- 
pose. 

[^Enter  Snacks^  boiving  very  obsequiously — Robin  takes  his 
hat  off.  and  stands  staring  at  him.] 

Rob.  I  be  main  tired,  Master  Snacks;  so  I  stopt  to  rest 
myself  a  little  ;  T  hope  you'll  excuse  it.  I  wonder  what  the 
dickens  he's  grinning  at.     [Aside.'] 

Snacks.  Excuse  it !  I  hope  your  lordship's  infinite  good- 
ness and  condescension  will  excuse  your  lordship's  most  ob- 
sequious, devoted,  and  very  humble  servant.  Timothy  Snacks 
who  is  come  into  the  preserice  of  your  lordship,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  informing  your  lordship — 

Rob.  Lordship!  he,  he.  he  !  Lordship!  lord — what  d'ye 
mean  !  Why,  Master  Snacks,  you  grow  funny  in  your  old 
age. 

Snacks.  No.  my  lord,  I  know  my  duty  better ;  I  should 
never  think  of  being  funny  with  a  lord, 

Rob.  What  lord?  Oh.  you  mean  the  Lord  Harry,  I 
suppose.  No,  no, -must  not  be  too  funny  with  him,  or  he'll 
be  after  playing  the  very  deuce  with  you. 

Snacks.  I  say,  I  should  never  think  of  jesting  with  a 
person  of  your  lordship's  dignified  character. 

Rob.  Dig — dig — what?  Why.  now  I  look  at  you,  I  see 
how  it  is  ;  you  are  mad.  I  wonder  what  quarter  the  moon's 
in.  Dickens !  how  your  eyes  do  roll  I  I  never  saw  you  sc 
before.     How  came  they  to  let  you  out  alone? 

Snacks.  Your  lordship  is  most  graciously  pleased  to  be 
facetious. 

Rob.  Why,  what  gammon  are  you  at?  Don't  come 
near  me,  for  you've  been  bit  by  a  mad  dog;  I'm  sure  you 
have. 

Snacks.  If  your  lordship  would  be  so  kind  as  to  read  this 
letter,  it  would  convince  your  lordship.  Will  j'-our  lordship 
condescend  ? 

Rob.  Why.  I  would  condescend,  but  for  a  few  reasons, 
and  one  of  'em  is,  that  I  can't  read. 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  42'? 

Snacks.  T  think  your  lordship  is  perfectly  right;  for 
these  pursuits  are  too  low  for  one  of  your  lordship's  no- 
bility. 

Rob.  Lordship,  and  lordship  again  !  I'll  tell  you  what, 
Master  Snacks — let's  have  no  more  of  your  fun,  for  I  won't 
stand  it  any  longer,  for  all  you  be  steward  here :  my  name's 
Kobin  Koughhead  and  if  you  don't  choose  to  call  me  by  that 
name,  I  shan't  answer  you  that's  flat  I  don't  like  him  weU 
enough  to  stand  his  jokes.     [Aside.^ 

Snacks.  Why.  then.  Master  llobin,  be  so  kind  as  to  at- 
tend, whilst  I  read  this  letter.  [Reads^  '•  Sir, — This  is  to 
inform  you,  that  my  Lord  Lackwit  died  this  morning,  after 
a  very  short  illness ;  during  which  he  declared  that  he  had 
been  married,  and  had  an  heir  to  his  estate  :  the  woman  he 
married  was  commonly  called,  or  known  by  the  name  of 
Roughhead :  she  was  poor  and  illiterate,  and  through  mo- 
tives of  false  shame,  his  lordship  never  acknowledged  her  as 
his  wife :  she  has  been  dead  some  time  since,  and  left  behind 
her  a  son,  called  Robin  Roughhead  :  now  this  said  Robin  is 
the  legal  heir  to  the  estate.  I  have  therefore  sent  you  the 
necessary  writings  to  put  him  into  immediate  possession, 
according  to  his  lordship's  last  will  and  testament.  Yours 
to  command,  Kit  Codicil,  AtVy  at  Law.^^ 

Rob.  What ! — What,  all  mine  ?  the  houses,  the  trees,  the 
fields,  the  hedges,  the  ditches,  the  gates,  the  horses  the  dogs, 
the  cats,  the  cocks,  and  the  hens,  and  the  cows,  and  the  bulls, 
and  the  pigs,  and  the —what !  are  they,  are  they  all  mine? 
and  I,  Robin  Roughhead,  am  the  rightful  lord  of  all  this  es- 
tate i  Don't  keep  me  a  minute  now,  but  tell  me,  is  it  so  ? 
Make  haste,  tell  me — quick,  quick  ! 

Snacks      I  repeat  it,  the  whole  estate  is  yours. 

Rob.  Huzza!  Huzza!  [^Catches  off  Snacks'' s  hat  and 
wig.]  Set  the  bells  a  ringing  ;  set  the  ale  a  running;  set — 
go  get  my  hat  full  of  guineas  to  make  a  scramble  with  ;  call 
all  the  tenants  together.     I'll  lower  their  rents — I'll — 

Snacks.     I  hope  your  lordship  will  do  me  the  favor  to — • 

Rob.  Why,  that  may  be  as  it  happens ;  I  can't  tell. 
[Careksslt/.'] 

Snacks.     Will  your  lordship  dine  at  the  castle  to  day  ? 

Rob.     Yes. 

Snacks.     What  would  your  lordship  choose  for  dinner  ? 

Rob.     Beefsteaks  and  onions,  and  plenty  of  'em. 

Snacks.  Beef-steaks  and  onions!  What  a  dish  for  a 
lord ! — He'll  be  a  savory  bit  for  my  daughter,  though.  [Aside.'] 


428  NEW    SCHOOL    DTALO0UE8. 

Rob.  What  are  j'-qu  at  there,  Snacks?  Go,  get  me  the 
guineas— make  haste  ;  I'll  have  the  scramble,  and  then  I'll 
go  to  Dolly,  and  tell  her  the  news. 

Snacks.     Dolly  !     Pray,  my  lord,  who's  Dolly  ? 

Rob.  Why,  Dolly  is  to  be  my  lady,  and  your  mistress, 
if  I  find  you  honest  enough  to  keep  you  in  my  employ. 

Snacks.  He  rather  smokes  me.  [Aside.]  I  have  a  beau- 
teous daughter,  who  is  allowed  to  be  the  very  pink  of  per- 
fection. 

Rob.  Hang  your  daughter  !  I  have  got  something  else 
to  think  of:  don't  talk  to  me  of  your  daughter:  stir  your 
stumps,  and  get  the  money. 

Snacks.  T  am  your  lordship's  most  obsequious. — Zounds ! 
what  a  peer  of  the  realm.      [Aside  and  exit] 

Rob.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  What  work  I  will  make  in  the  vil- 
lage I  Work,  no,  there  shall  be  no  such  thing  as  work :  it 
shall  be  all  play.  Where  shall  I  go?  I'll  go  to — no,  I 
won't  go  there  I  I'll  go  to  Fanner  Hedgeslakes  and  tell  him 
— no,  I'll  not  go  there  I'll  go — I'll  go  nowhere;  yes,  I  will; 
I'll  go  everywhere  ;  I'll  be  neither  here  nor  there,  nor  any- 
where else.      How  pleased  Dolly  will  be  when  she  hears — 

[Enter   Villagers  shouting.'] 
Dick.  Tom,  Jack,  how  are  you.  my  lads  1 — here's  news  for 
you  I     Come,  stand  round   make  a  ring,  and  I'll  make  a  bit 
of  a  speech  to  you.     [TJtey  all  get  round  him.]     First  of 
all,  I  suppose  Snacks  has  told  you  that  I'm  your  landlord « 

Villagers.     We  are  all  glad  of  it. 

Rob.  So  am  I ;  and  I'll  make  you  all  happy ;  I'll  lower 
all  your  rents. 

All.     Huzza  !  long  live  Lord  Robin  ! 

Rob.     You  shan't  pay  no  rent  at  all. 

All.     Huzza  !  huzza  !  long  live  Lord  Robin  ! 

Rob.  I'll  have  no  poor  people  in  the  parish,  for  I'll  make 
'em  all  rich ;  I'll  have  no  widows,  (or  I'll  marry  'em  all. 
[All  shout  ]  I'll  have  no  orphan  children,  for  I'll  father  'em 
all  myself,  and  if  that's  not  doing  as  a  lord  should  do,  then 
I  say  I  know  nothing  about  the  matter — that's  all. 

All.     Huzza !  huzza  ! 

[JS7iter  Snacks.] 

Snacks.  I  have  brought  your  lordship  the  money. — He 
means  to  make  'em  fly,  so  I  have  taken  care  the  guineas  shall 
be  all  light.     [Aside  | 

Rob.  Now.  then,  young  and  old.  great  and  small,  little 
and  tall,  merry  men  all,  here's  among  you.     [Throws  the 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING.  429 

money ;  they  scrainhlc]  Now  you've  got  your  pockets  filled^ 
come  to  the  castle,  and  I'll  fill  all  your  mouths  for  you, 
[  Villagers  carry  him  off,  sJ touting — Snacks  follows.] 

Scene  3. — The  Roadside. 

Frank.     Well,  then,  to  the  house  of  wo  I  must  return 
again.     Nothing  can  I  take  to  cheer  my  loving  wife  and 
helpless  children.     What  misery  to  see  them  want ! 
[Enter  Robin,  unobserved  by  Frank.] 

Robin.  Want!  No,  there  shall  be  no  such  thing  as 
want  where  I  am.  that's  for  sartin. 

Frank.  My  own  distress  I  care  not  for ;  but  to  see  my 
helpless  infants  suffer,  is  more  than  I  can  bear. 

Rob.  And  more  than  I  can  bear  too.  [Throws  his  hat 
ujyon  tJie  grownd.  takes  momy  out  of  his  pocket  and  throws 
into  it.'] 

Frank.  How  happy  once  my  fate  !  Did  the  poor  e'er 
tell  a  tale  of  woe  without  relief?  Were  not  my  doors  open 
to  the  unfortunate? 

Rob.     How  glad  I  be  as  I  be — a  lord. 

Frank.     No  hand  stretched  out  to  my  relief 

Rob.  Hey,  what !  Yes,  it  is  Mr.  Frank.  Sir,  I'm  very 
glad  as  I  met  with  you. 

Frank.     Why  so,  my  friend  ? 

Rob.  Because  you  be  mortal  poor,  and  I  be  mortal  rich  ; 
and  I'll  share  my  last  farthing  with  you. 

Frank.  Thank  you,  my  kind  lad.  But  what  reason 
have  you  ? 

Rob.  What  reason  have  I  ?  Why.  you  gave  me  when  1 
wanted  it. 

Frank.     I  can't  remember. 

Rob.  Mayhap  not :  but  that's  no  reason  as  I  should  for- 
get it:  it's  a  long  time  ago.  too;  but  it  made  such  a  mark 
here,  that  time  won't  'rub  it  out.  It's  now  fourteen  years 
sin'  poor  mother  died:  she  was  very  ill  one  day  when 
you  happened  to  come  by  our  cottage,  and  saw  me  stand 
blubbering  at  the  door ;  I  was  then  about  this  high.  You 
took  me  by  the  hand,  and  I  shall  never  forget  the  look  you 
gave  me,  when  you  axed  me  what  was  the  matter  with  me ; 
and  when  I  told  you.  you  called  me  a  good  lad.  and  went 
in.  and  talked  to  mother.  From  that  time  you  came  to  see 
her  every  day.  and  gave  her  all  the  help  as  you  could  :  and 
when  she  died,  poor  soul!  you   buried  her:  and  i^  ever  I 


430  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

forget  such  kindness.  I  hope  good   luck  will  forever  forget 
me ! 

Frank.     Tell  me  your  name  ;  it  will  remind  me. 

Rob.  Robin  Roughhead,  your  honor ;  to-day  I  be  come 
to  be  lord  of  all  this  estate ;  and  the  first  good  I  find  of  it 
is,  that  I  am  able  to  make  you  happy.  \_StujJing  money 
into  his  pockets.']  Come  to  me  when  I  get  to  the  castle, 
and  I'll  give  you  as  much  money  as  you  can  carry  away  in 
a  sack.     But,  good-by;  I  must  be  off  to  see  Dolly. 

[^Exeunt.'] 

Scene  4. — Inside  of  a  neat  Cottage ;  table  spread  for  dinner. 

[Enter  Margery  and  Dolly.] 

Dolly.  There  now,  dinner's  all  ready,  and  I  wish  Robin 
would  come.  Do  you  think  that  I  may  take  up  the  dump- 
lings, mother  ] 

Margery.  Ay,  ay,  take  'em  up;  I  warrant  him  he'll 
soon  be  here — he's  always  in  pudding-time. 

Dol.  And  well  he  may,  for  I'm  sure  you  keep  him  sharp 
set  enough. 

Mar.  Hold  your  tongue,  you  baggage  !  He  pays  me 
but  five  shillings  a  week  for  board,  lodging,  and  washing. 
I  suppose  he's  not  to  be  kept  like  a  lord  for  that,  is  he  ?  I 
wonder  how  you'll  keep  him  when  you  get  married,  as  you 
talk  of. 

Dol.  Oh,  we  shall  do  very  well,  I  dare  say;  for  Robin 
loves  me,  and  I  loves  Robin  dearly. 

Mar.  Yes  ;  but  all  your  love  won't  keep  the  pot  boiling, 
and  Robin's  as  poor  as  Job. 

Dol.  •  La,  mother,  now,  don't  be  so  cross  ! — Oh  dear,  the 
dinner  will  get  cold,  and  the  dumplings  will  be  quite  spoiled  ; 
I  wish  Robin  would  come.  [Robin  sings  ivithout.\  Oh, 
here  he  comes,  in  one  of  his  merry  humors.  [Enter  Robin, 
who  cools  himself  with  his  hat.  then  sings  and  dances.] 
Why,  Robin,  what's  the  matter  with  you  1 

Rob.  What !  you  haven't  heard  then  ?  Oh,  I'm  glad  of 
that !  for  I  shall  have  the  fun  of  telling  you. 

Dol.  Well,  sit  down  then  and  eat  your  dinner,  I  have 
made  you  some  nice  hard  dumplings. 

Rob.     Dumplings  !     Dang  the  dumplings. 

Dol.  Dang  the  dumplings!  La,  mother,  he  dangs  the 
dumplings — oh,  what  a  shame !  Do  you  know  what  you 
ore  saying,  Robin  ? 


COMIC    AND    AMUSING,  431 

Roh.     Never  talk  to  me  of  dumplings. 

Mar.  But  I'll  talk  of  dumplings,  though,  indeed ;  I 
shouldn't  have  thought  of  such  behavior:  dumplings  are 
very  wholesome  food — quite  good  enough  for  you,  I'm  sure. 
[  Very  angry.] 

Rob.  Are  they,  mother  Margery?  [Upsets  the  table^ 
dances  on  the  plates^  and  sings.']     Tol  de  rol  lol. 

Mar.  Oh  dear  !  the  boy's  mad  ;  there's  all  my  crockery 
gone  !     [Ficking  uj)  the  pieces.] 

Dol.  [Crying.]  I  did  not  think  you  could  have  used 
us  so;  I'm  quite  ashamed  of  you,  Robin  ! 

R(^.     Now  doantye  cry  now,  Dolly  ;  doantye  cry. 

Dol.     I  will  cry,  for  you  behave  very  ill. 

Rob.  Now  doantye,  Dolly,  doantye,  now.  [Shaws  a 
purse.] 

Dol.     How  did  you  come  by  that  ? 

Mar.  What,  a  purse  of  gold  !  let  me  see.  [Snatches  it 
and  sits  down  to  count  the  money.] 

Dol.     What  have  you  been  about,  Robin  ? 

Rob.  No,  I  have  not  been  about  robbin ;  I  have  been 
about  being  made  a  lord  on,  that's  all. 

Dol.  What  are  you  talking  about?  Your  head's  turned, 
I'm  sure. 

Rob.  Well.  I  know  it's  turned  ;  it's  turned  from  a  clown's 
head  to  a  lord's.  I  say,  Dolly,  how  should  you  like  to  live 
in  that  nice  place  at  the  top  of  the  hill  yonder? 

Dol.  Oh,  I  should  like  it  very  much,  Robin  ;  it  is  a  nice 
cottage. 

Rob.     Don't  talk  to  me  of  cottages — I  mean  the  castle  ? 

Dol.     Why,  what  is  your  head  running  upon? 

Mar.  Every  one  golden  guineas,  as  I  am  a  vartuous 
woman  !     Where  did  you  get  'em,  Robin  ? 

Rob.     Why,  where  there's  more  to  be  had. 

Mar.  Ay.  I  always  said  Robin  was  a  clever  lad.  I'll 
go  and  put  these  by.     [Cros'^es  aiid  exit.] 

Dol.  Now  do  tell  me  what  you  have  been  about.  Where 
did  you  find  all  that  money? 

Rob.  Dolly,  Dolly,  gee'  us  a  buss,  and  I'll  tell  thee  all 
about  it. 

Dol.     Twenty,  an'  you  pleasen.  Robin.     [Kissing.] 

Rob.  First,  then,  you  must  know,  that  I  am  the  cleverest 
fellow  in  all  these  parts. 

Dol.     Well.  I  know'd  that  afore. 

Rob.     But  I'll  tell  you  how  it  is — it's  because  I  am  the 


432  NEW    SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

richest  fellow  in  all  these  parts ;  and,  if  I  haven't  it  here,  I 
have   it  here.     [JPointing   to   his   head  and   his  pockels.'\ 
That  castle's  mine  and  all  these  fields,  up  to  the  very  sky. 
^  Dol.     No,  no;  come.  Robin,  that  won't  do. 

Rob      Won't  it?     I  think  it  will  do  very  well. 

Dol.     What!  are  you  in  right  down  arnest? 

Rob.     Yes,  I  am  ;    his  lordship's  dead,  and  he  has  left 
word  as  how  my  mother  was  his  wife,  and  I  his  son. 

Dol.     What  -t 

Rob.     Yes,  Dolly,  and  you  shall  be  my  lady. 

Dol.     No!     Shall  I? 

Rob.     Yes,  you  shall. 

Dol.     Oh.  that  will  be  fine  fun — my  lady — 

Rob.     Now  wliat  do  you  think  on't? 

Dol.     My  lady — Lady  Roughhead — 

Rob.     Why,  Dolly ! 

Dol.     Lady  Roughhead!     How  it  sounds!     Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
[Laughs  immoderately  and  sinks  into  a  chair.'\ 


Rob.  Zooks !  I  believe  she's  going  into  a  high  strike. — 
Dolly  !  Dolly  !     [Slapping  lier  hands.\ 

Dol.     Ha,  ha.  ha  !     But  now,  is  it  true  in  arnest? 

Bob.  Ay.  as  sure  as  you  are  there.  Rut  come,  what 
ehall  we  do?  Where  shall  we  go?  Oh,  we'll  go  and  see 
old  mother  Dickens  ;  you  know  she  took  my  part,  and  was 
very  kind  to  me  when  poor  mother  died  :  and  now  she's 
very  ill,  and  I'll  go  and  give  her  something  to  comfort  her 
old  soul.  I  have  heard  people  say  as  riches  won't  make  a 
body  happy;  but  while  it  gives  me  the  power  of  doing  so 
much  good,  I'm  sure  I  shall  be  the  happiest  cog  alive. 

\Rlxeunt.^\ 


COMIC   AND   AMUSTNG.  433 


XXXVIII.— COUSIN  F-KTEU.—Souvestre. 

COUSIN"   PETER — MANOK — LOUIS — MRS-  LECLEEC. 
Scene  l.-^Manon,  a  servant,  knocking  at  the  door. 

Manon.  Eh  I  Mr.  Peter!  Mr.  Peter]  Are  you  there  ? 
Answer  if  you  are  not  there. 

Peter,  ^Entering  another  door^  What  is  it,  my  good 
Manon  ? 

M,  Oh,  you  were  in  the  garden !  I  said  so — that  a 
sailor  would  get  up  very  early  in  the  morning. 

P.     I  was  up  before  it  was  light. 

M.  There  now !  because  you  have  come  from  a  warm 
climate,  where  it  is  light  before  sunrise,  you  are  deceived 
about  the  time  here. 

P.  [Smiling.']  Not  that  exactly,  Manon ;  but  I  have 
not  been  able  to  close  my  eyes  the  whole  night. 

M.  Oh,  sir,  the  bed  must  have  been  badly  made! 
Perhaps  you  sleep  on  feathers  ? 

P.     No,  it  was — 

M.     You  had  not  enough  covering  ? 

P.  I  had  too  much  to  think  of.  Remember  that  it 
was  only  last  evening  that  I  came  ashore. 

M.  And  very  late,  too — for  we  waited  six  hours  for 
you.  So  it  was  not  my  fault  if  the  macaroni  was  cooked 
too  much. 

P.  [Smiling.]  It  was  excellent,  my  good  woman. 
Everything  is  excellent  when  one  comes  back  to  France, 
after  ha^ing  spent  ten  years  in  India. 

M.  India!  That  must  be  a  wonderful  country,  if 
what  our  neighbor's  porter  says  is  true. 

P.     Has  he  been  there  ? 

3L  No,  but  he  has  read  a  book  of  travels,  in  which  it 
says  that  elephants  are  used  for  carriage-horses  there; 
and  that  they  fish  for  whales,  as  they  do  for  gudgeons,  to 
say  nothing  of  serpents  that  whistle.  Then  the  musqui- 
toes,  the  camels,  and  I  do  not  know  how  many  other 
kinds  of  vermin  that  torment  their  lives!  You  ought  to 
have  seen  how  anxious  Mrs.  Leclerc  was  about  you  when 
she  did  not  get  your  letters. 

P.  Excellent  cousin  1  She  loves  me  very  much !  We 
were  brought  up  together,  like  brothei*  and  sister. 


434  NEW  SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

M.  She  was  always  afraid  of  lions,  and  pirates,  and 
sharks.  It  was  in  vain  for  me  to  say,  "  There  is  no  dan- 
ger,— Mr.  Peter  has  too  much  caution."  She  was  not 
easy  till  she  saw  you. 

P.  And  this  Louis  wliom  I  see  here,  is  he  the  son  of 
lior  sister  who  is  dead  ? 

M.  Yes,  sir.  He  has  come  from  his  boarding-school  to 
pass  his  vacation  with  his  aunt.  She  was  anticipating 
so  much  pleasure  in  having  him  here;  but  since  he 
came — \ Interrupts  herself,  shaking  her  head.] 

P.    Well?     What  then? 

M.  Oh,  you  know  well  enough  how  it  is !  At  that 
age  a  boy  has  such  ideas !  And  he  does  such  strange 
things!  Puts  on  so  many  airs!  It  is  always  so  with 
young  boys.     You  understand  ? 

P.     [Smiling.']     Not  very  clearly,  my  good  woman. 

M.  It  is  very  plain,  however.  He  wants — [Looking 
at  the  clock.]  Goodness  me  I  Nine  o'clock  already !  And 
my  cutlets  not  yet  on  the  gridiron!  Excuse  me,  Mr. 
Peter.  I  certainly  am  not  tired  of  your  company.  But 
as  King  Dagobert  said  to  his  dogs,  there  is  no  company 
so  good  that  you  do  not  have  to  leave  it.  There  now! 
This  parrot,  Jacko !  I  forgot  to  put  him  in  the  sun  in 
the  garden.  Have  you  had  your  breakfast,  Jacko  ?  Come, 
Jacko,  my  pretty  Jacko.  [8he  goes  out,  carrying  the  parrot.] 

P.  This  good  Manon  has  no  more  connection  m  her 
ideas  than  formerly.  She  confounds  Cousin  Louis,  cut- 
lets, parrots  and  King  Dagobert!  She  never  finishes 
what  she  begins.  However,  I  can  guess  what  she  meant 
about  the  little  boy.  He  seemed  to  me,  at  the  first  glance, 
to  belong  to  that  class  of  self-v>^illed  and  uncontrolled 
boys  who  only  see  their  duty  in  what  pleases  them,  and 
who  rebel  against  all  who  advise  or  reprove  them.  If  I 
am  right,  I  will  give  him  a  lesson.  I  have  a  plan  already, 
[Looking  out  of  the  window.]  Here  he  is,  this  minute ! 
[He  slips  hehind  the  door.]  Here  I  can  see  and  hear  him 
without  his  seeing  me. 

Scene  2. — Lours — Manon. — Louis  enters  with  his  tunic  torn, 
and  without  buttons,  his  belt  wrong  side  out,  his  hat  without 
a  crown,  and  his  black  silk  cravat  in  his  hand,  in  which  he  is  car- 
rying something. 

Louis.  No  one  saw  me !  After  all,  it  is  not  my  fault. 
I  was  throwing  stones  at  the  nut-trees,  and  they  all  fell 


COMIC   AND   AMUSING.  435 

on  the  sashes  of  my  aunt's  conservatory !  Everything  is 
smashed  to  pieces !  What  a  pity !  What  does  she  want 
glass  in  a  garden  for,  I  wonder  ?  [^Takes  nuts  from  his 
cravat,  and  eats  them!] 

Manon.  [ Coming  m.]  Ah !  Mr.  Louis,  I  have  caught 
you  at  it !  Eating  again  between  meals !  And  you  are 
cracking  nuts,  again,  too ! 

L.     Do  you  want  me  to  eat  the  shells  ? 

M,  But  you  are  cracking  them  with  your  teeth, 
naughty  boy! 

L,  I  should  like  to  know  if  teeth  are  not  given  us  to 
be  used  ? 

M,  No,  sir.  At  your  age  they  are  given  to  be  cared 
for  and  preserved!  But  what  is  this?  [Looks  m  the 
cravat.]  Oh,  my  goodness !  You  have  knocked  down 
almonds  and  pears!  You  have  been  making  havoc  in 
your  aunt's  orchard ! 

L.  Quite  the  contrary — it  has  made  havoc  of  me! 
Look  here.     [Shows  his  Jiat.] 

31.  Good  heavens !  What  a  plight !  Holes  and  rents 
everywhere !     Your  hat  has  no  bottom ! 

L.  [Eating  all  the  time.]  Nor  my  pantaloons  either, 
as  to  that! 

M.  Unlucky  boy !  you  will  never  be  any  better !  Eat- 
ing green  fruit!  No  cravat!  Disobeying  your  aunt! 
Without  taking  off  the  peel!  Ruining  your  health! 
Belt  wrong-side  out !  No  sense,  no  suspenders !  Remem- 
ber what  I  say,  Mr.  Louis,  you  will  come  to  some  bad  end ! 

L.  Manon,  you  are  as  eloquent  as  Cicero,  but  your 
language  is  not  very  agreeable.  You  would  please  me 
better  if  you  would  keep  your  Catiline-ics*  for  geese  and 
turkeys. 

31  Catilineics  !  Take  care,  sir !  I  will  not  take  nny 
insolence  from  you.  I  have  never  made  any  Catili?  eics, 
I  tell  you. 

X.     You  seem  to  know  what  they  are,  at  any  rate. 

3f.  Of  course  I  do.  It  is  some  bad  pie  they  give  3  ou 
to  eat  at  school.  But  I  have  served  my  time — I  am  a 
cordon-bleu,  sir! 

L.  Do  tell !  That  means,  grand  cordon  of  the  legion 
of — scullions ! 

M.  [  Very  angry.]  I  declare,  Mr.  Louis,  I  will  com- 
plain of  you  to  your  aunt. 

*  Cicero's  orations  ai^-ainst  Cataline. 


436  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

L.    My  dear,  that  is  wholly  beneath  my  notice. 

M.  She  shall  know  how  you  obey  her !  For  instance, 
she  has  forbidden  you  to  go  fishing,  and  I  have  just  seen 
a  fishing  net  in  the  cellar. 

L.  Hush!  Will  you  hold  your  tongue?  Francis 
lent  it  to  me,  and  we  are  going  fishing  after  breakfast. 

M.    Your  aunt  has  told  you  she  did  not  want  you — 

L.     It  is  none  of  your  business,  Manon. 

M.     I  will  tell  her! 

L.    You  will  tell  her? 

M.     As  soon  as  she  comes  in. 

L.     Very  well,  then.     Look  out  for  yourself! 

M.  Look  out,  indeed !  And  pray  what  will  you  do  to 
me,  sir? 

L.  I  will  stamp  down  your  beds  of  garlic  and  parsley. 
I  will  bring  caterpillars  and  beetles  into  your  kitchen. 
I  w^ill  make  an  omelet  of  the  eggs  of  your  canary. 

M.  \^Extending  her  hands.]  Oh,  sir,  these  are  the 
seven  plagues  of  Egypt! 

L.    I  will  tie  an  old  saucepan  to  the  tail  of  your  cat. 

M.  [Frightened.]  To  the  tail  of  Calypso !  [  Wring- 
ing her  hands.]  Oh,  don't,  I  entreat  you,  Mr.  Louis! 
Pray  don't!     Calypso  would  refuse  to  be  comforted. 

L.     Don't  tell  my  aunt,  then. 

M.  Well,  I  won't  tell  her !  But  it  will  not  be  my 
fault  if  some  one  else  tells  her.  Like  the  day  you  went 
hunting  contrary  to  her  orders.  What  a  fright  you  gave 
her ! 

L.     That  was  very  pleasant ! — very ! 

M.  It  was  not  at  all  pleasant  to  her,  I  tell  you,  Mr. 
Lauis !  Your  aunt  is  very  nervous,  and  whenever  you 
worry  her  she  has  attacks — 

L.     [With  emotion.]    Attacks!    What  sort  of  attacks ? 

M.  She  does  not  want  you  to  see  them,  and  she  goes 
into  her  own  room.  But  I  know  all  about  it,  and  as 
soon  as  I  see  that  you  have  worried  her,  I  make  herb-tea 
for  her ;  and  nobody  knows  how  much  you  have  made 
me  spend  for  herbs  the  last  month.  I  have  to  keep  the 
kettle  on  the  fire  all  the  time. 

L.  [  With  feeling.]  My  aunt  knows  that  I  love  her— 
that  I  do  not  want  to  make  her  unhappy.  I  know  you 
are  telling  me  lies,  Manon ! 

M.     [  Wounded.]     Lies,  sir!    I  assure  you  that  I  make 


COMIC  AND  AMUSmG.  437 

no  lies,  any  more  than  I  do  Catilineics.  When  I  say  a 
thing,  it  is  a  thing — it  is  truth  itself.  As  a  proof,  let  me 
tell  you  that  the  other  day,  after  you  answered  her  so 
rudely,  I  found  her  crying. 

L.  [Throios  dotvn  tlie  pear  lie  is  eating,  and  is  much 
moved.']  Are  you  sure,  Manon  ?  Did  you  say  my  aunt 
was  crying  ? 

M.    Yes !     I  saw  tears  as  large  as  little  peas. 

L.     Did  you  say  that  I  was  the  cause  of  her  tears  ? 

M.  To  be  sure  you  were.  You  disobeyed  her.  That 
reminded  her  of  your  poor  mother,  w4io  is  dead.  Then 
she  began  to  read  over  her  letters,  and  that  always  makes 
her  sad. 

L.  [QuicJdT/,  banishing  his  emotion.']  It  was  the  let- 
ters, then,  that  made  her  cry !  It  was  not  I !  Nobody 
ever  knows  what  you  mean,  Manon!  You  mix  every- 
thing up — you  make  a  jumble  of  everything!  Your 
conversation  is  a  veritable  hash ! 

M.  [Piqued.]  Very  possible,  sir.  As  I  was  born 
during  the  Eevolution,  my  parents  were  not  able  to  give 
me  an  education.  I  can  neither  play  the  violin  nor  speak 
French  as  well  as  you  can,  but  that  does  not  prevent  my 
seeing — 

L.     No ;  only  you  don't  know  what  you  do  see. 

M.  [Angry.]  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.  I  see  that  you 
are  making  your  aunt  very  unhappy. 

L.     [Loud,  to  drown  her  voice.]     That  is  not  true. 

J/.  [Raising  her  voice.]  That  you  will  make  her 
sick — 

L.    [Still  louder.]    Will  you  hold  your  tongue,  Manon  ? 

M.  [With  a  loud  voice.]  No,  I  will  not  hold  my 
tongue !     I  will  force  you  to  hear  the  truth. 

L.    [Singing,  to  drown  her  voice.]    La,  la,  la,  tol,  lol,  lol. 

M.  [Very  loud]  You  are  a  glutton,  a  rebel,  an  idle, 
lazy,  good-for-nothing !     That's  what  you  are ! 

L.     [Sings  while  she  is  talking.] 

"  There  was  an  old  woman  that  lived  in  a  shoe. 
She  had  so  many  children  she  knew  not  what  to  do." 

Scene  3.— Mrs.  Leclerc— Louis— Manon. 

Mrs.  Leclerc.  [  Coming  in.]  Well-a-day !  Well-a-day  I 
What  is  all  this  noise  ? 


438  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

L.  \_Aside^  Oh,  here  comes  my  aunt!  [Changes  his 
helt,  and  turns  around  to  hide  the  rents  in  his  tunic] 

Mrs.  L.  I  am  glad  I  have  found  you,  Louis.  I  have 
just  come  from  your  room.  I  found  your  boots  on  the 
bureau,  a  dictionary  in  the  bed,  and  bread  and  sweetmeats 
on  your  violin. 

L.  \_Tur7iing  his  hach  to  his  aunt.]  I  beg  your  par- 
don, aunt ;  but  I  was  in  a  hurry  this  morning. 

M.     What  hurried  you  ? 

L.     [Embarrassed.]     Oh !  nothing  special. 

Mrs.  L.  And  that  prevented  your  doing  anything? 
But  why  do  you  turn  your  back  to  me  ?  Why  do  you 
not  look  at  me  ? 

M.  [Ironically.]  One  would  think  the  light  hurt  his 
eyes! 

3frs.  L.  [  Goes  to  Louis,  and  turns  him  towards  her.] 
Let's  see  what  is  the  matter !  Ah !  I  understand !  The 
same  good  order  in  the  costume  as  in  the  chamber ! 

L.  If  a  boy  must  always  be  careful  when  he  plays,  he 
will  have  no  fun. 

Mrs.  L.  Fun !  And  you  think  that  for  the  sake  of 
fun,  you  may  forget  everything  else !  That  you  are  ex- 
cused from  all  care,  all  obedience,  all  propriety!  Pleasure 
first,  duty  afterwards ! 

L.  Goodness,  aunt!  There  is  no  great  harm  done. 
The  tailor  can  soon  make  all  right. 

Mrs.  L.  And  can  the  tailor  give  you  the  careful  hab- 
its that  you  lack,  that  self-control,  and  those  orderly 
ways,  without  which  your  whole  life  will  be  wasted  in 
vain  efforts  ? 

L.     [Aside^     She  has  begun  to  preach  now ! 

Mrs.  L.  You  say  this  can  be  mended.  Alas !  this  is 
the  way  to  strengthen  in  yourself  the  small  faults  which 
will  become  great  ones  by  and  by.  A  child  who  does 
not  know  how  to  take  care  of  his  books  and  to  preserve 
his  clothes,  when  he  becomes  a  man  will  be  just  as  care- 
less of  his  fortune  and  his  honor. 

M.     [Coming  close  to  L.]     Don't  forget  that. 

L.     [Impatient.]     Let  me  alone,  Manon. 

Mrs.  L.  You  cannot  wear  those  clothes  any  longer. 
Go  and  change  them. 

M.  I  have  hung  out  his  new  coat  to  air.  I  will  fetch 
it  in  a  moment. 


COMIC   AND   AMUSING.  439 

Mrs,  L.  [Takes  a  look  from  the  tabled  Here  is  a  book 
I  want  you  to  take  to  Mrs.  Wales. 

L.     To-day!  aunt? 

Mrs.  L.  [  Wrapping  it  in  a  paper.^  As  soon  as  we 
have  done  breakfast. 

M.    Aha!     So  you  will  not  go  fishing  with  Francis! 

Mrs.  L.  Say  to  Mrs.  Wales  that  I  have  just  received 
the  book,  and  I  send  it  to  her  immediately. 

L.     But — ^Aunt,  can't  you  wait  till  to-morrow? 

Mrs.  L.    For  what  ? 

L.    This  afternoon — I  have  planned — a  little  walk — 

Mrs.  L.     You  can  put  it  off  to  another  day. 

L.  [Aside.]  Another  day  it  will  not  be  high  tide,  and 
I  shall  have  no  luck  fishing. 

M.  [Maliciously.]  Mr.  Louis  will  surely  be  delighted 
to  give  up  a  pleasure  for  good  Mrs.  Wales. 

L.     [Sharply.]     I  am  not  talking  to  you. 

M.  She  is  an  excellent  woman!  She  has  done  me 
many  favors ! 

L.  [Briskly.]  Then  it  is  for  you  and  not  me  to  re- 
turn them. 

[Manon  goes  out  laughing.] 

Mrs.  L.  You  forget,  Louis,  that  she  has  done  me 
many  a  kindness  for  which  I  can  never  thank  her  enough. 

L.  [Angrily.]  Very  possibly !  I  do  not  concern  my- 
self with  your  affairs! 

Mrs.  L.  [  With  severity.]  You  do  wrong,  then ;  for  I 
concern  myself  with  yours,  when  I  can  be  useful  to  you. 
You  compel  me  to  say  that  I  often  take  upon  myself  for 
you,  duties  far  more  trying  than  to  carry  a  book  to  a 
friend. 

L.  Then  my  aunt  reproaches  me  for  the  trouble  I 
give  her  ? 

Mrs.  L.  Come,  Louis,  let  us  stop  this.  Your  bad 
humor  takes  away  all  your  good  sense  and  judgment. 
As  soon  as  breakfast  is  over,  you  will  take  this  book  to 
Mrs.  Wales.  I  wish  it.  I  command  it.  [Gives  him  the 
look.] 

L.  [Aside.]  For  my  part,  I  don't  wish  it.  Dees  she 
think  I  am  going  to  give  up  in  this  way  a  fishing  party  ? 
Let  Mrs.  Wales  have  her  old  book  to-morrow ! 

M.  [Coming  in  with  the  coat.]  Oh,  good  heavens! 
What  ruin  and  desolation ! 


440  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Mrs,  L.  Why,  Manon,  what's  the  matter  ?  What  has 
happened  ? 

M.  What  is  the  matter !  In  the  first  place,  here  is 
the  coat  of  Mr.  Louis — 

L.  [Sharply.]  Give  it  to  me.  [He  snatches  it,  and 
puts  it  on  m  place  of  the  torn  ttinic.'] 

M.  [  With  excitement.']  But  as  I  passed  by  the  con- 
servatory, I  saw  all  the  glasses  broken  to  pieces ! 

L.     [Aside.]     Tell-tale! 

Mrs.  L.  What  are  you  saying,  there,  Louis  ?  This  is 
doubtless  one  of  your  amusements,  sir ! 

L.  Not  at  all !  I  didn't  do  it  on  purpose !  I  was  try- 
ing to  knock  down  the  nuts — 

M.  [Showing  his  cravat  lying  on  a  chair.]  And  pears, 
and  almonds !  For  he  destroys  everything  in  the  garden ! 
We  might  as  well  be  given  up  to  the  Bedouins !  And  if 
that  were  all !  You  know  that  flower,  the  beauty  of  the 
green-house  ? 

Mrs.  L.    What!    My  cactus? 

M.    Yes !     It  is  all  broken  to  shreds ! 

Mrs.  L.    No !    Is  it  possible  ? 

M.  You  ought  to  die  of  shame,  sir!  Such  a  beauti- 
ful plant,  which  your  aunt  prized  as  the  apple  of  her  eye, 
because  Mrs.  Wales  gave  it  to  her. 

L.    [Impatient^    Mrs.  Wales  be  hanged !    Mrs.  Wales! 

Mrs.  L.  [Severely.]  Stop,  Louis.  What  do  you  mean 
by  such  talk,  sir  ? 

L.  [More  impatiently.]  What  do  I  mean !  I  mean 
that  I  won't  bear  any  longer  this  insolence  of  Manon. 

Mrs.  L.     But  I  have  to  bear  all  your  impertinence! 

L.  [More  and  more  impatient.]  There  is  no  need  of 
all  this  fuss  for  a  broken  cactus.  The  florist  close  by  has 
hundreds  of  them.     I  will  replace  the  one  I  have  broken. 

Mrs.  L.  Can  you  replace  the  memory  which  it  recalled 
to  me? 

L.     Oh,  then  it  is  a  matter  of  sentiment  I 

Mrs.  L.  [Irritated.]  Yes,  sir!  And  since  you  do 
not  understand  it,  and  pay  no  regard  to  my  orders,  I 
shall  protect  myself  from  further  depredations  by  for- 
bidding you  to  go  into  the  garden. 

L.     [Shrugging  his  shoiilders.]     What  do  I  care? 

Mrs.  L.    You  shall  stay  in  your  room. 


COMIC   AND   AMUSING.  441 

L.  So  mucli  the  better!  Mrs.  Wales  won't  get  her 
book,  then ! 

Mrs.  L.  I  beg  your  pardon!  I  am  not  willing  that 
others  should  suffer  for  your  faults.  Besides,  the  punish- 
ment would  be  a  triumph  for  you,  if  it  excused  you  from 
a  disagreeable  duty.  You  shall  go  to  Mrs.  Wales'  before 
your  punishment  begins. 

L.     [Risi7ig  in  a  rage.]     I  will  not  go.    I  will  not. 

Mrs.  L.    What  do  you  mean ,  sir  ? 

L.  [  Very  loud.]  No.  If  you  treat  me  as  a  prisoner. 
I  will  stay  in  prison.  Whoever  will  may  carry  the  book! 
I  will  not.     [Thro2vs  the  book  on  the  table.] 

Mrs.  L.     [Very much  troubled.]     Louis!  Louis! 

L.  [KicJciny  his  foot,  and  very  angry.]  It  is  useless  I 
I  w^on't  go !     I  won't  go ! 

M.    Be  quiet !    Here  comes  Mr.  Peter !    [She  goes  out.] 

Scene  4. — Mrs.  Leclekc — Cousin  Peter — Louis,  reading  a 
newspaper.     The  table  set  for  breakfast. 

P.  [Aside.]  I  was  not  far  from  right  about  this  lit- 
tle boy.  He  needs  a  lesson.  Let's  see  if  it  will  do  him 
any  good!  [Aloud.]  Oh,  ho!  It  seems  breakfast  is 
ready ! 

Mrs.  L.  [  With  a  trembling  voice ^  Yes  ;  in  fact — we 
were  waiting  for  you. 

P.  [Sharply.]  You  did  wrong,  cousin.  I  never 
wait  for  anybody.  [Sees  Louis.]  Oh !  here  is  the  little 
boy !    He  looks  in  good  health !     How  do  ? 

Mrs.  L.     Louis,  your  cousin  speaks  to  you. 

L.  [  Without  rising  and  continuing  to  read.]  I  hear 
well  enough. 

P.  That  shows  that  he  isn't  deaf.  Come,  let  us  eat 
and  be  happy ! 

[He  and  Mrs.  L.  take  their  seats  at  the  table.] 

P.  [Looking  at  Louis.]  Isn't  the  young  gentleman 
coming  to  breakfast  ? 

L.     [In  a  surly  tone.]     I  am  not  hungry. 

P.  [Helping  himself^  He  appears  to  be  breakfasting 
on  the  newspaper. 

Mrs.  L.  [  Very  much  displeased^  He  has  yet  to  learn 
that  a  dining-room  is  not  a  reading-room. 

L.  [Throiving  doivn  the  journal^  I  thought  the  Ga- 
zette was  put  here  to  be  read. 


4:42  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

3frs.  L.  [Angrilt/.']  But  we  are  here,  too,  and  I 
should  think  our  society  was  to  be  preferred  to  the  news- 
paper. 

L.    I  thought  I  had  a  right  to  take  my  choice ! 

Mrs.  L.  You  are  wanting  in  respect  to  your  cousin, 
Louis ! 

P.  To  me  ?  Not  at  all !  Not  at  all !  Not  a  copper 
do  I  care !  Whether  he  reads,  or  sleeps,  or  sings,  or  cries, 
I  care  as  little  as  I  do  about  the  old  moons.  Liberty — 
lihertas  !  [Bxtending  his  plate.~\  A  little  more  omelet, 
cousin. 

L.     [Aside,  rising.]     Admirable ! 

Mrs.  L.     [Embarrassed.]     But,  think — 

P.  I  do  think — that  we  have  but  one  life  to  live,  and 
we  may  as  w^ell  make  the  most  of  it.  Pass  me  the  ham, 
if  you  please.  So  you  see  I  am  not  in  favor  of  restrain- 
ing any  one. 

L.  Good  !  good !  There  is  one  man  that  is  sensible. 
[He  comes  to  the  table.] 

Mrs.  L.    .You  are  not  sefious!    You  are  joking! 

P.  No.  I  am  not  joking.  Every  one  should  live  ac- 
cording to  his  own  pleasure,  and  do  what  he  likes.  That 
is  my  political  doctrine!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  And  I  bet  it  is 
yours,  you  rogue!     Ha,  ha,  ha!     [To  Louis.] 

L.  Exactly,  my  cousin.  I  don't  see  why  we  should 
trouble  ourselves  for  others !  Or  why  we  should  always 
be  tormented  with  duties  ! 

Mrs.  L.  [Eagerly.]  Louis,  since  you  do  not  wish 
any  breakfast,  go  do  the  errand  I  gave  you. 

L.    Aunt — 

P.  Let  him  wait  a  little.  "We  want  to  get  acquainted 
with  each  other.  He  is  a  little  scamp !  [Strikes  him  on 
the  shoulder.]  Ha,  ha,  ha!  So  much  the  better!  At 
his  age  I  was  full  of  the  evil  one. 

Mrs.  L.  [Astonished.]  You!  On  the  contrary. 
Cousin  Peter,  I  remember  very  well  how  considerate  you 
were !    And  so  obedient — so  full  of  respect — 

P.  Nonsense !  Distance  embellishes  everything ;  but 
I  haven't  forgotten  all  the  naughty  tricks  I  played  on  my 
good  mother. 

L.    And  she  wasn't  angry  at  you  ? 

P.    Sometimes — but  bah!  I  did  not  mind  that !     Her 


COMIC   AND   AMUSING.  443 

scolding  was  all  in  vain !    I  never  cared  vrhat  she  said ! 
Cousin,  have  you  any  brandy  ? 

Mrs.  L.     Louis,  go  get  the  brandy. 

P.  [Holding  hiin  bach]  Not  at  all — stay,  my  boy ! 
The  servant  is  there !     Let  her  get  it — Manon ! 

M,     Here  I  am,  sir! 

P,     Give  me  the  brandy. 

31.  [Fetches  it]  Here  it  is,  sir.  [Puts  a  hottle  on  the 
table.]  I  am  sorry  to  disturb  you,  ma'am,  but  some  one 
is  waiting  to  speak  with  you.     He  is  in  a  hurry. 

P.     Make  no  stranger  of  me,  cousin.     Go,  I  beg  you. 

Mrs.  L.  I  will  go,  then.  Come,  Louis,  I  want  you. 
[She  goes  out  ivith  Manon.] 

P.  [Holding  back  Louis  from  going  out  with  his  aunt.] 
Are  you  going  to  leave  me  alone  ? 

X.     My  aunt  told  me  to  follow  her. 

P.  [Making  him  sit  down.]  Bah!  Leave  your  aunt  to 
herself,  and  let  us  talk  a  little.  Here !  have  some  brandy! 
[Offers  him  a  glass.] 

L.     [Looking  around^     If  they  should  see  me — 

P.  Nonsense !  Drink,  you  booby !  It'  will  make  your 
beard  grow !  Besides,  you  are  old  enough  to  be  your  own 
master. 

L.  That's  what  I  think !  And  that's  what  I  mean 
to  be.     But  I  am  afraid  to  take  the  brandy ! 

P.    Doesn't  every  one  live  for  himself? 

L.     Certainly — that's  plain  enough. 

P.  God  has  given  us  tastes !  Well,  let  us  follow  them, 
then. 

L.    Ah,  cousin,  you  are  a  real  philosopher. 

P.    I  am  a  practical   philosopher,  my  boy.    I  never 
concern  myself  with  what  pleases  or  displeases  other  peo- 
ple.    I  like  what  amuses  me,  and  I  do  what  I  like.   What 
do  you  say  to  my  system.^ 
*   Z.    I  think  it  is  admirable ! — first  rate ! 

P.  [Slapping  him  on  the  head.]  I  am  very  glad  that 
we  understand  each  other,  my  boy,  seeing  I  mean  to  live 
here ! 

L.    Is  that  so  ? 

P.  Yes.  This  cottage  suits  me — and  I  shall  make 
only  a  few  changes.  In  the  first  place,  that  large  room, 
next  to  my  chamber — 


444  NEW   SCHOOL    DIALOGUES. 

L.    That  is  my  carpentei-'s  shop ! 

P.     With  benches  and  boards  in  it  ? 

L.     Yes.     And  a  turning-lathe. 

P.     I  shall  move  them  ail  out  this  evening. 

L.  [Astonished.]  What  do  you  mean?  What  will 
you  do  that  for  ? 

F.     To  make  a  smoking-room  of  it.  * 

L.     But  then,  think,  Cousin  Peter — 

F.  Oh,  you  must  make  the  best  of  it,  my  little  fellow ! 
Then  that  little  grove  at  the  foot  of  the  garden  is  just 
the  place  for  a  bowling-alley.  If  it  were  not  for  the  ropes 
and  ladders  hanging  from  all  the  trees. 

X.     That  is  my  gymnasium ! 

P.     You  will  have  to  burn  them  all  up,  my  dear ! 

L.  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing?  And  I  shall 
have  nothing  left ! 

P.  [Taking  out  a  cigar.]  I  am  very  sorry  for  it,  dar- 
ling! But — what  business  have  they  to  be  in  my  way  ? 
[  WitJi  emphasis.]  "  If  one  does  not  want  to  have  panes 
of  glass  broken,  why  have  windows  ?  "  Give  me  a  match, 
will  you? 

L.  [Angrily.]  The  servant  is  there,  as  you  said  just 
now !     Ask  her. 

P.  [Striking  his  glass.]  That's  right!  You  have  a 
good  memory.  It  will  be  useful  when  you  study  lan- 
guages. [Striking  louder.]  What's  the  matter  ?  Can't 
she  hear  ?  [Strikes  louder  yet.]  Manon !  Manon !  She 
must  be  deaf!  [Strikes  tiuo  glasses  at  the  same  time.] 
Manon!  Manon! 


Scene  6. — ^Mes.  Leclerc — Cousin  Peter — Louis — ^Manon.- 
Manon  rushes  in,  out  of  breath. 


M.    Here  I  am,  sir!    What  will  you  please  to  have? 

P.  I  have  been  calling  you  for  an  hour,  you  con- 
founded snail ! 

M.     [Angry.]     What  do  you  call  me,  sir  ?     Snail ! 

P.  Bring  me  a  match !  Quick !  Thunder  and  all 
the  tempests ! 

M.  [Drawing  hack,  terrified.]  Oh!  there  are  some, 
sir !    There  they  are — on  the  side-board ! 


COMIC   AND    AMUSING. 


445 


P.  [Rising,  and  taking  a  7natch.'\  Why  didn't  you 
say  so  at  once  ?     Old  crab ! 

M.     [Clasping  her  hands.]     Ah  me!    A  crab! 

Mrs.  L.     [Coming  in.]     "What  is  all  this  noise? 

P.  Zounds!  Because  you  have  a  servant  who  can't 
understand  anything — who  accomplishes  nothing — a  ver- 
itable oyster ! 

M.  [  Very  angry,  and  coming  up  to  Peter ^  An  oys- 
ter, now !  Sir,  you  needn't  think  that  because  you  are  a 
sailor,  you  can  call  me  by  the  names  of  all  the  fishes  in 
the  sea ! 

Mrs.  L.    You  may  leave  the  room,  Manon. 

M.     [Furious.]     No,  ma'am !     I  will  not  allow — 

P.  [Opens  the  door,  and  mahes  a  violent  gesture.] 
There  !     Out  with  you ! 

M.  [In  terror.]  I  am  going,  sir !  [Aside.]  Oh,  he 
is  the  devil  himself !  [Seeing  Peter  making  a  movement 
towards  her.]    I  am  going,  sir!   I  am  going!    [Goes  out.] 

Mrs.  L.  I  Avish  you  to  understand,  cousin,  that  our 
good  Manon  is  not  accustomed  to  such  rude  treatment. 

P.  [Smoking.]  That's  the  reason  she  is  such  a  poor 
servant. 

L.    [  With  feeling.]    Nobody  ever  found  that  out  before ! 

Mrs.  L.  We  have  always  been  satisfied  with  her  ser- 
vice. 

P.     That  shows  that  you  are  too  easily  satisfied ! 

Mrs.  L.  Not  at  all!  But  we  cannot  forget  her  fidel- 
ity, her  honesty — 

L.    The  services  she  rendered  in  her  younger  days ! 

P.  What  is  that  to  me  ?  What  do  I  care  for  the  good 
qualities  she  has  had,  if  she  hasn't  got  them  now  ?  ^  The 
best  ship  of  the  fleet  is  demolished  as  soon  as  she  is  too 
old  for  service.  We  employ  domestics  to  serve  us,  not  to 
show  them  gratitude. 

Mrs.  L.  You  wouldn't  wish,  though,  that  I  should 
put  into  the  street  a  faithful  servant  who  has  almost 
brought  me  up  ? 

P.  [Smoking^  Send  her  to  the  hospital!  Or  any- 
where but  here !  [He  sees  a  gun  over  the  mantel.].  Ah  !  I 
see  a  musket!     [He  takes  it.] 

Mrs.  L.  Take  care !  Take  care,  Cousin  Peter !  It  is 
loaded ! 

P.     Ah !  is  it  ?    Is  its  aim  accurate  ?    But  how  should 


446  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

you  know  ? — a  woman !  1  was  formerly  a  great  hunts- 
man, let  me  tell  you,  and  a  good  marksman.  Let's  see  if 
my  siglit  is  still  good.     [  Goes  to  the  window.'] 

Mrs.  L.  For  mercy's  sake,  cousin,  don't  fire !  I  sliall 
faint  away !     I  shall  go  into  spasms ! 

P,     Cork  your  ears,  then  ! 

L.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  it  would  be  easier  not  to 
fire — 

P.  Why  shouldn't  I,  if  it  amuses  me  ?  [  With  em- 
phasis.'] ''  I  don't  see  why  we  should  trouble  ourselves 
about  other  people."  If  there  were  only  a  cat  or  a  bird  in 
the  garden  now,  you  w^ould  see  bow  I  bring  down  the 
game !     [Looking  out.]     Ah,  I  see  what  I  want ! 

L.     {Running  to  prevent  him.]     I  entreat  you! — 
[Peter  fires,     Mrs.  L.  screams  and  leans  on  an  arm-chair.] 

L.  [Running  to  her.]  See  how  you  have  frightened 
my  aunt !  I  could  not  believe  that  any  one  could  have 
so  little  regard — 

P.  [Looking  in  the  garden.]  He  has  fallen !  He  is 
shot !     Bravo ! 

Mrs.  L.     Shot !     Who  is  shot  ? 

M.  [Rushing  in  wildly.]  Good  heavens !  It  is  abom- 
inable!   He  is  shot! 

Mrs.  L.    Who  is  shot,  Manon,  who  is  shot  ? 

M.  [Showing  the  parrot.]  He  I  the  parrot !  Jacko! 
Jacko!  dead!  shot! 

L.    My  aunt's  parrot !    It  is  cruel ! 

Mrs.  L.     Is  it  possible  ?    This  is  beyond  all  endurance  I 

P.     [Calmly.']     I  wanted  to  see  if  I  had  lost  my  skill. 

M,    Then  you  did  it  on  purpose !     Oh !  sir ! 

L.     In  return  for  my  aunt's  hospitality ! 

M.  [Exasperated.]  He  has  no  heart !  He  is  a  savage ! 
A  barbarian ! 

P.    What's  that  you  say? 

M.  I  say  you  are  a  Herod,  since  like  him  you  murder 
innocents ! 

P.    Oh,  well !  oh,  well!  I'll  have  him  stuffed ! 

M.  Stuffed!  Do  you  consider  that  the  same  thing, 
sir?  Would  you  like  to  be  stuffed  yourself?  Will  that 
give  life  again  to  Jacko  ? — a  bird  that  could  talk  better 
than  me;  that  could  eat  everything;  that  was,  so  to 
speak,  one  of  the  family ;  and  that  my  lady  took  care  of 
herself ! 


COMIC   AND   AMUSING.  447 

Mrs.  L.    All !     He  was  left  to  me  by  my  dead  sister! 

L.  [^Bitterly.']  And  you  knew  it,  for  I  told  you  of  it 
yesterday.    It  is  a  shame  ! 

P.  [  With  emphasis.']  So  you  make  a  parrot  to  be  "  a 
matter  of  sentiment " !     Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

31.    Why  not,  if  it  recalled  the  dead  ? 

P.    Because  it  was  as  great  a  gabbler  as  she  was. 

Mrs.  L.     This  is  too  much  !     1  cannot  bear  it ! 

L.  [  With  a  threatening  gesture.']  You  forget,  sir,  you 
are  speaking  of  my  mother ! 

Mrs.  L.  Until  now  I  have  borne  with  your  strange 
language,  your  rudeness,  everything,  till  this  last  brutal 
speech.  But  you  shall  not  insult,  in  my  presence,  one 
who  is  not  here  to  defend  herself,  and  for  whom  I  shall 
never  cease  to  mourn — my  beloved  sister — the  mother  of 
Louis!     [^She  takes  Louis  in  her  arms,  with  emotion.] 

L.  {^Greatly  moved,  embracing  her.]  And  for  my  part, 
I  will  not  permit  my  aunt  to  take  any  more  of  your  inso- 
lence.    Stop,  sir ! 

P.  Heyday!     What  does  this  mean  ? 

L.  I  mean  that  you  have  behaved  here  as  if  you  had 
been  on  board  a  pirate  ship ;  that  for  a  whole  hour  we 
have  all  had  to  suffer  from  your  words  or  your  actions ; 
and  that  in  heart,  mind  and  character,  you  are  unfit  to 
live  near  my  good  aunt. 

Mrs.  L.  You  have  said  enough,  Louis.  Go  out,  now, 
and  leave  me  to  settle  this  affair  with  Cousin  Peter. 

P.  [Changing  his  tone.]  No,  I  beg  your  pardon,  my 
cousin.  I  will  make  you  the  apology  I  owe  you,  a  little 
later.    Allow  me  first  to  reply  to  Louis. 

L.    Proceed,  sir.     Say  what  you  have  to  say. 

P.  [Seriously.]  In  the  first  place,  then,  be  so  good 
as  to  tell  me  how  you  can  be  shocked  by  my  rudeness ; 
you,  who  went  on  reading  the  paper  without  saluting  me 
as  I  came  in  ;  you,  who  applauded  the  maxim  that  every 
one  ought  to  act  his  pleasure,  without  caring  for  others  ? 

L.     [Disconcerted.]     I  meant — 

P.  You  consider  me  selfish  and  insolent.  But  what 
have  I  done  this  morning,  that  you  do  not  do  every  day, 
and  all  day  long?  Don't  you  see  that  every  one  of  my 
acts  was  justified  by  one  of  the  maxims  by  which  you 
excused  yours  ?  I  have  only  done  all  this  to  show  you 
to  yourself! 


448  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

L.     [TrouMed.]     I  did  not  intend —    I — 

P.  [Severely.]  Hear  me  through  !  My  treatment  of 
Manon  has  exasperated  you!  How  have  you  behaved 
toward  the  friend  of  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Wales?  You  ac- 
cuse me  of  showing  disrespect  to  the  memory  of  your 
deceased  mother.  Do  you  show  any  more  respect  to  Mrs. 
Leclerc,  your  living  aunt?  My  conduct  this  morning 
has  made  you  indignant ;  what  must  you  think  then  of 
your  own?  Mine  has  been  unbecoming  towards  my 
equals ;  yon  are  insolent  to  your  suj^eriors.  Which  of  us, 
think  you,  has  given  the  most  unfavorable  idea  of  his 
"mind,  his  heart,  his  character  "  ? 

L.  [Perplexed.]  It  seems  to  me — cousin — I  would — 
say  to  you — or  rather — [Cliaiiginci  suddenly.]  JSTo,  I  have 
nothing  to  say !     I  am  wrong !     1  am  wrong ! 

P.  [Taking  Ms  hand.]  Good,  my  boy!  Good,  my 
dear  Louis !  My  end  is  accomplished,  now  3^ou  say  that. 
We  will  forget  the  past,  and  do  better  in  the  future.  In 
all  this  affair,  the  real  victims  are  the  good  Manon,  whose 
pardon  I  beg  for  all  my  impertinence,  and  my  dear  cousin, 
to  whom  I  do  not  know  how  to  make  a  suitable  apology. 

Mrs.  L.  [Offeri7ig  Jiim  her  hand.]  Oh!  there  is  no 
need  of  any.  Now  1  understand  it  all.  You  wanted  to 
show  Louis  to  what  the  neglect  of  duty  would  lead  him, 
and  that  the  boy  who  thinks  of  nothing  but  his  own 
pleasure,  is  certain  to  become  a  self-willed  man,  whom 
everybody  will  despise  and  hate. 

L.  [Seizi7ig  the  hand  of  Peter.]  This  lesson  shall  not 
be  lost  upon  me,  dear  cousin,  and  I  thank  you  for  it 
with  all  my  heart. 

P.  Eather  thank  Lycurgus,  my  dear  boy ;  for  the  dis- 
covery of  this  method  belongs  to  him.  To  disgust  the 
young  Spartans  with  drunkenness,  he  exhibited  to  them 
slaves  in  a  state  of  intoxication. 

M.  Ah  well!  That  shows  that  Mr.  Lycurgus  was  a 
citizen  of  good  sense;  and  that  he  was  familiar  with  my 
grandmothei-'s  proverb, — "  He  who  makes  faces,  does  not 
like  looking-glasses" 


COMIC   AND   AMUSING.  449 


XXXIX —THE  LAWYmiS.—BaciTie. 

Scene  1. — The  Judge— His  Son — The  Secretary  and  the 
Servant  {as  lawyers)— Fuomvtbb.. 

Secretary.  Where  are  you  running  to,  your  Honor? 
You  will  hurt  yourself.     Y  ou  are  limping  badly. 

Judge.     I  am  going  to  pronounce  sentence. 

Son.  What,  my  father !  Stay  and  have  your  wound 
dressed.  John!  John!  [^Calliyig.']  Eun  for  a  surgeon, 
quick ! 

J.     I  can't  stop.     Let  him  come  to  the  court-room. 

Son.    Father,  father !  do  give  up  this — 

J.  Oh,  I  see  how  it  is !  You  mean  to  make  me  do  as 
you  like.  You  show  me  no  respect  or  consideration,  and 
do  not  allow  me  to  pronounce  a  single  sentence. 

Son.  Gently,  gently,  sir.  We  must  make  some  ar- 
rangement that  will  satisfy  you.  If  life  is  a  torment  to 
you,  unless  you  can  pronounce  sentence — if  you  cannot 
exist  without  cases  to  try — you  need  not  go  out  of  your 
own  house  for  them.  Employ  your  talent,  and  give  sen- 
tence here  at  home. 

J.  My  son,  speak  not  contemptuously  in  my  presence 
of  the  majesty  of  law.  No !  I  will  never  consent  to  be 
a  judge  in  masquerade. 

Son.  On  the  contrary,  you  shall  be  an  acknowledged 
judge,  from  whose  verdict  there  shall  be  no  appeal.  You 
shall  try  civil  cases  and  criminal  cases.  You  shall  hold 
two  court  sessions  everyday.  Everything  shall  be  to  you 
an  occasion  for  a  trial  and  a  sentence.  If  a  servant  fails 
to  bring  a  clean  glass,  fine  him.  If  he  breaks  a  glass, 
sentence  him  to  be  whipped. 

J.  Ah !  that  is  very  well  arranged.  Now  you  speak 
to  the  point. 

Son.    .Against  one  of  your  neighbors — 

Servant.  [Rushes  in,  crying.']  Stop  thief!  stop  thief! 
Catch  him!  All  is  lost!  Citron,  your  dog,  has  eaten  a 
capon.  Nothing  is  safe  in  his  presence.  He  pounces  on 
everything  he  sees,  and  scampers  off  to  devour  it. 

Son.  Good !  Here  is  a  case  for  my  father !  To  the 
rescue !  help !     Chase  him !     Eun,  everybody  run  ! 


450  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

J.  Gently,  gently !  Not  so  much  noise !  The  crimi- 
nal shall  be  brought  to  justice  without  scandal. 

Son.  Now,  father,  pronounce  a  severe  sentence  against 
this  family  thief     Make  a  fearful  example  of  him. 

/.  But  I  wish  to  do  it  with  honor  to  myself,  and  to 
come  off  with  colors  flying.  We  need  a  lawyer  for  each 
side,  and  we  have  none. 

Son.  Oh,  well!  we  must  make  some.  Here  is  your 
servant,  and  your  secretary.  They  will  make  excellent 
advocates ;  they  are  very  ignorant. 

Sec.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  you  are  not  just.  I  can 
be  put  to  sleep  as  easily  as  any  other  man. 

Ser.  As  for  me,  I  know  nothing;  so  you  have  nothing 
to  expect  on  my  side. 

Son.  It  is  your  first  case,  and  you  must  get  some  .one 
to  write  your  argument  for  you. 

Ser.     but  I  can't  read. 

Son.     Oh,  you  shall  have  a  prompter. 

J.  Come  on,  then !  Let  us  begin !  Now,  gentlemen, 
no  intrigue!  Shut  your  eyes  against  all  bribery,  and 
your  ears  against  all  malice  and  perversion.  You  [to  the 
servant]  shall  be  for  the  prosecution,  and  you  [to  the  sec- 
retary] for  the  defense. 


Scene  2. — The  Judge — His  Son — The  Secketaky  and  Ser- 
vant {ingoicns) — The  Prompter. 

J.    Who  are  all  these  people  ? 
Son.    These  are  the  lawyers. 
J.     [To  the  prompter.]     And  you? 
Pr.    I  have  come  to  aid  their  failing  memories. 
/.     Oh,  I  understand!    And  you?     [To  his  son.] 
Son.     Oh,  I  am  the  court ! 
J.     Begin  then ! 
Pr.  "Gentlemen"— 

Ser.     Speak  lower,  I  tell  you.     If  you  prompt  so  loud, 
I  shall  not  be  heard.     Gentlemen — 
J.    Put  on  your  hats. 
Ser.    Oh !     Gen— 
J.     Put  on  your  hats,  I  tell  you. 
Ser.    I  know  my  place  too  well,  sir,  for  that. 


COMIC    AND   AMUSING.  451 

J,     Well,  then,  leave  it  off! 

Ser.  [Putting  on  Ms  hat.]  Gentlemen — [2b  thepromp- 
ter — Speak  slow  now!  The  beginning  is  the  part  I 
know  best.]  Gentlemen,  when  I  look  closely  at  the  in- 
constancy of  the  world,  and  its  endless  vicissitudes;  when 
I  see  among  so  many  different  men,  not  one  fixed  star, 
and  so  many  Avandering  orbs ;  when  I  see  the  Csesars ; 
when  I  see  their  fortune ;  when  I  see  the  sun,  and  when  I 
see  the  moon ;  when  I  see  the  kingdom  of  the  Babibo- 
nians,  transferred  from  the  Serpians*  to  the  Nacedonians ; 
when  I  see  the  Eonans  pass  from  a  state  of  depotism  to 
a  democrity,  and  then  to  a  monarchity ;  when  I  see  Ja- 
pan— 

Sec.     When  did  you  see  all  that  ? 

Ser,  Oh,  why  did  you  interrupt  me  ?  I  will  not  go 
on. 

J.  Inconsiderate  advocate !  Why  didn't  you  let  him 
finish  his  period  ?  I  would  sweat  blood  and  water  to  see 
if  he  could  come  naturally  and  gracefully  from  Japan  to 
the  murdered  capon ;  and  you  must  needs  interrupt  him 
with  your  gabble !     Go  on,  advocate. 

Ser.     I  have  lost  the  place. 

Son.  Finish,  John.  Your  introduction  was  splendid. 
But  what  are  your  arms  doing,  hanging  down  at  your 
sides?  And  you  stand  on  your  two  feet  as  stiff  and 
straight  as  a  statue  !  Come,  exert  yourself  a  little !  Get 
a  little  life  into  you !     Courage ! 

Ser.     [Swinging  his  arms.]    When 1  see When 

I  see — 

So7i.     Say  what  you  see. 

Ser.    Plague !    No  one  runs  down  two  hares  at  a  time  I 

Fr.     We  read — 

Ser.    We  read — 

Pr.     In  the— 

Ser.     In  the — 

Pr.    Metamorphosis — 

Ser.    What? 

Pr.    That  the  metem — 

Ser.     That  the  me^^.m — 

Pr.     Psychosis — 

Ser.     Psychosis — 

*  Persians. 


452  NEW    SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Pr.    Ah,  the  beast ! 

Ser.     And  the  beast — 

Pr.     Say  that  over ! 

Ser,     Say  that  over — 

Pr.     The  dog! 

Ser.     The  dog— 

Pr.     What  a  booby! 

Ser.     What  a  booby — 

Pr.     Plague  take  the  lawyer ! 

Ser.  A  plague  on  you,  I  say,  with  your  long,  thin, 
pale  face !     Out  with  you ! 

J.  Come  to  the  fact  I  Not  one  word  yet  of  the  fla- 
grant deed! 

Ser.  Is  it  necessary  to  have  all  this  beating  about  the 
bnsh  ?  They  give  me  words  to  pronounce  a  fathom 
long — great  words  that  would  reach  from  here  to  Lyons. 
For  my  part,  I  don't  know  how  to  make  such  a  fuss  just 
to  say  that  the  dog  stole  a  capon  this  morning — that 
there  is  nothing  in  the  house  that  he  wouldn't  take — that 
he  has  eaten  a  good  Maine  capon — that  as  soon  as  I  catch 
him,  I  will  finish  the  trial.     I  will  kill  him! 

Son.  A  fine  conclusion !  Bravo !  Well  worthy  the 
exordium ! 

Ser.  You  always  understand.  None  so  blind  as  those 
who  will  not  see ! 

J.     Call  the  witnesses. 

Son.  That  is  well  said,  your  Honor,  if  the  thing  were 
possible.  But  witnesses  are  very  expensive ;  and  no  one 
was  willing  to  come  and  testify. 

Ser.  We  have  some,  notwithstanding;  and  they  are 
above  reproach. 

J.     Call  them  in ;  call  them  in. 

Ser.  They  are  here — they  are  in  my  pocket.  Look ! 
Here  is  the  head  of  the  capon,  and  here  are  the  feet. 
Look  at  them,  and  see  for  yourselves. 

Sec.     I  take  exception  to  them. 

J.     Good !     Why  do  you  refuse  them  ? 

Sec.     Because  they  are  from  Maine. 

J.    Yes,  they  come  from  Maine  by  the  dozen. 

Sec.     Gentlemen —    . 

J.    Are  you  going  to  be  long,  lawyer? 

Sec.     I  make  no  promises. 

J.    He  is  very  guarded. 


COMIC   AND   AMUSING.  453 

Sec.  [Ending  in  a  falsetto  hey.'\  Gentlemen,  every- 
thing that  could  startle  a  guilty  man — everything  that 
could  terrify  a  mortal  man — seems  to  have  crowded  to- 
gether against  me,  by  chance — I  mean,  by  chicanery  and 
by  eloquence.  For,  on  one  side  the  good  name  of  the 
deceased  makes  me  tremble ;  and  on  the  other,  the  bril- 
liant eloquence  of  my  opponent  dazzles  me. 

J,    Lawyer,  soften  your  tone,  if  you  please. 

Sec.  [In  an  ordinary  tone.]  Oh,  yes!  I  have  a  variety 
of  them.  \In  a  lofty  mamie7\~\  But  the  aforesaid  elo- 
quence, and  the  aforesaid  good  name,  must  be  received 
with  some  distrust.  Nevertheless,  gentlemen,  I  strengthen 
myself,  resting  in  the  anchorage  of  your  goodness.  Be- 
sides, in  the  presence  of  the  renowned  Judge,  [boivs  to 
him]  innocence  is  bold.  Yes,  in  the  presence  of  this 
Cato  of  our  age — this  sun  of  justice  which  has  never  been 
bedimmed —  Victrix  causa  Bits  placuity  sed  victa  Catoni. 

J.    Faith,  he's  a  good  pleader ! 

Sec.  I  speak,  then,  without  fear,  and  I  come  to  my 
defense.    Aristotle,  2^'^'imo  peri  Politicon,  well  says — 

J.  Advocate,  the  question  is  one  of  a  capon,  and  not 
of  Aristotle  and  his  policy. 

Sec.  Yes,  your  Honor!  But  the  authority  of  the 
Peripatetic  would  prove  that  good  and  evil — 

J.  I  maintain  that  Aristotle  has  no  authority  here. 
To  the  point ! 

Sec.     Pausanias,  in  his  Corinthiads — 

J.     To  the  point ! 

Sec.     Ilebukes — 

/.     To  the  point,  I  tell  you  I 

Sec.     The  distinguished  James — 

/.     To  the  point!     To  the  point! 

Sec.     Harmenopel,  in  Prompt — 

J.     Oh,  I  will  sentence  you ! 

Sec.  Oh,  you  are  in  such  a  hurr^ !  [Hurriedly.]  To 
the  point,  then.  These  are  the  facts :  A  dog  comes  into 
a  kitchen.  He  finds  there  a  capon,  which  is  very  tempt- 
ing. The  accused,  my  client,  is  famishing  with  hunger. 
The  other  party,  against  whom  I  plead,  is  fat  and  appe- 
tizing. He  for  whom  I  plead  slyly  seizes  him  against 
whom  I  plead,  and  devours  him.  He  is  condemned  at 
once — he  is  seized.    An  advocate  for  and  against  is  sum- 


454  NEW  SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

moned.  The  day  is  fixed  for  trial.  I  am  to  speak.  I  do 
speak.     I  have  spoken. 

J.  Ta,  ta,  ta,  ta !  A  fine  way,  indeed,  of  unfolding  an 
argument!  He  states  very  concisely  that  which  has 
taken  place,  and  then  when  he  reaches  the  fact,  he  races 
hurriedly  on  at  a  grand  gallop. 

Sec.     But  the  first  part  was  well  done. 

/.  No;  it  was  far-fetched  and  out  of  place.  Did  one 
ever  listen  to  such  pleading  ?     But  what  does  the  Court 

Son,  May  it  please  your  Honor,  it  is  very  satisfactory 
to  the  Court. 

Sec.  [Earnestly.']  What  happens,  gentlemen?  A 
crowd  collects— they  hunt  down  my  client.  A  house  is 
forcibly  entered.  And  whose  house?  The  house  oi'  our 
honorable  Judge  himself!  The  cellar  to  which  we  have 
fled  for  refuge  is  broken  open.  We  are  accused  of  theft, 
of  brigandage!  'We  are  dragged  out,  and  delivered  to 
our  accusers — to  Mr.  John  himself!  I  appeal  to  you, 
gentlemen !  Who  does  not  know  that  the  law,  si  quis 
cams,  Digeste,  de  vi,  paragraphs,  gentlemen — caponihus, 
is  plainly  opposed  to  such  an  abuse?  And  even  allow- 
ing that  my  client  did  eat  a  large  part  or  even  the  whole 
of  the  aforesaid  capon,  let  this  honorable  body  take  into 
consideration  our  standing  and  our  good  conduct  previ- 
ous to  this  trial.  When  did  my  client  ever  receive  or  de- 
serve a  reproof  ?  Who  has  faithfully  guarded  your  house 
by  night  and  by  day  ?  When  did  he  ever  fail  to  bark  at 
a  thief?  We  can  furnish  as  witnesses  three  procurers, 
whose  gowns  have  been  torn  to  ribbons  by  the  aforesaid 
Citron.  You  shall  see  the  pieces.  [^Takes  them  from  Jiis 
pocket,  and  displays  them.]  Do  you  wish  to  see  more,  be- 
fore doing  us  justice  ? 

Ser.     Mr.  Adam — 

Sec.     Stop  interrupting. 

Ser.    The  Secretary — 

Sec.    Hold  your  tongue ! 

Ser.    Is  getting  hoarse. 

Sec.     Stop  that,  I  say!    Ugh!  ugh! 

J.     Rest  a  little,  and  then  finish. 

Sec.  [Heavily.]  Since,  then,  it  is  granted  me  to  take 
breath,  and  denied  me  to  enlarge,  I  shall,  without  omit- 
ting anything,  and  without  any  prevarication,  succinctly 


COMIC   AND   AMUSING.  455 

enunciate,  explain,  and  set  before  you,  the  universality  of 
my  cause,  and  of  the  facts  therein  contained. 

/.  He  would  rather  say  the  whole  over  twenty  times 
than  to  leave  out  a  word.  Man  or  devil,  or  whatever 
you  are,  finish,  I  say,  or  may  the  sky  fall  on  you ! 

Sec.     I  am  concluding. 

J.     Ah !     Attention ! 

Sec.     Before  the  birth  of  the  world — 

J.     [Yawning.^     Skip  to  the  deluge. 

Sec,  Before  the  birth  of  the  world,  and  its  creation, 
the  world,  the  universe,  everything,  all  nature,  was  buried 
far  beneath  the  material.  The  elements,  fire,  air,  earth, 
and  water,  submerged,  heaped  up,  formed  only  a  vast  pile, 
a  confusion,  a  mass  without  form,  a  disorder,  a  chaos,  an 
enormous  assemblage.  Unus  erat  toto  naturd  vultus  in 
orbe,  quern  Greed  dixere  chaoSy  rudis  indigestaque  molis. 
[  The  Judge  gets  to  sleep  and  falls.] 

Son.    Oh,  father !     He  has  fallen ! 

Ser.    How  the  poor  man  sleeps ! 

[  They  run  to  him,  and  awake  him.] 

Son.    Wake  up,  father !    Father,  wake  up ! 

Sec.     Ah,  sir!  are  you  killed*? 

Son.     Father !  father !     [Shakes  him.] 

J.  Well,  well,  well!  What  is  all  this?  Ah,  I  see! 
What  a  man  he  is !  I  certainly  never  had  such  a  good 
nap. 

Son.    You  must  give  the  verdict,  father. 

/.    To  the  galleys! 

Son.     A  dog  to  the  galleys ! 

J.  Faith !  I  can't  keep  my  mind  on  it !  I  am  bewil- 
dered, and  gone  astray,  witli  the  world  and  chaos.  [To 
the  Sec]     Ila!     Finish,  will  you  ? 

Sec.  [Bringing  forward  puppies.]  Come  forward, 
bereaved  family — come,  poor  pups,  soon  to  be  made  or- 
phans come,  that  your  puppyish  artlessness  and  help- 
lessness may  plead  in  your  behalf.  Ah,  gentlemen,  you 
behold  our  wretchedness !  We  are  orphans.  Restore  our 
father  to  us!  The  father  who  begat  us!  The  father 
who — 

J.  Take  them  out!  take  them  out!  Out,  I  say! 
Out  with  the  nuisances ! 

Sec.     Our  father,  gentlemen — 

/.     Out  with  them,  I  say  !    What  a  hubbub ! 


456  NEW   SCHOOL   DIALOGUES. 

Sec.     I  pray  you,  sir,  beliold  our  tears ! 

J.  I  do !  I  do !  and  I  am  moved  with  pity.  The 
heart  must  be  hard,  indeed,  that  is  not  touched  by  such 
a  scene !  But  I  am  in  a  strait.  What  can  I  say  ?  I  am 
borne  down  by  the  facts.  The  crime  is  admitted ;  he 
confesses  it  himself.  But  if  I  give  judgment  against 
him,  my  embarrassment  will  be  extreme.  Six  helpless 
orphans  doomed  to  the  hospital !  We  have  no  further 
business  to-day ! 


VB  36888 


ivi209497  ;ll^ 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


